Gainful Employment
by Kaprou
Summary: A novel about Peter Parker in the Web of Shadows AU. Featuring 43 chapters! Includes appearances by the Stacys, Mysterio, Tombstone, the Cobra, Kingpin, Bullseye, Mystique, Dr. Strange, and more! Please recommend! (Complete.)
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

**Monday, October 28**

"Lots on the agenda tonight, eh?" the slim man said as he stepped into the dark, rectangular room.

"There is always lots on the agenda, rumbled a deep voice from the other end of the chamber. "What do you want, Beck?"

Beck smiled to himself and walked through the dimness beside the long table and its chairs, towards the vast desk at the end. Beck reflected that in a very real way, the huge man was ensconced in a throne.

"You know I try to be helpful, Mister Fisk," Beck said. "I've discovered something in the course of my work that I thought might interest you."

"Show me."

Beck hefted his briefcase up onto Fisk's desk and popped the latches. Opening it, he said, "These pictures were taken by some of my surveillance gear. He wasn't an intruder. The individual in question tripped the motion sensitive shutters on cameras on rooftops." Beck said as he opened the large manila envelope and pulled out the enlarged photos. He slid them across the desk, where huge hands picked them up; in Fisk's grip they were very small indeed.

Fisk looked at the first, then slowly cycled it to the back, looking at the next, and so on.

"It gets better," Beck said. "I wouldn't waste your time with simple photos. I've got more evidence."

"Beck," rumbled Fisk, "I value your talents a great deal. I keep you on retainer because of your skill, and to a degree your imagination. You are my crime scene artist. I am familiar with your capabilities. Do not try to pull a ridiculous Halloween prank on me. Do not test my patience." He carelessly tossed the pictures back to Beck.

They fanned across the desk; pictures of an inhumanly lithe figure in a dark leotard with huge white eyespots; upside down at a distance, swinging on what looked like cables, clinging to a wall.

"That stuff he's swinging on," Beck said earnestly. "It dissolves in about an hour when it's exposed to air. So I got a sample he left stuck on a building and managed to get it while it was fresh enough to embed in plastic." He pulled a cube of clear plastic with a lumpy web filament inside out of his briefcase. "I'm telling you, Fisk, this guy is for real. Imagine the potential."

"You must understand that you, in particular, are incapable of producing evidence that will sway me," Fisk boomed softly. He smiled, his hawkish features spreading unpleasantly. "That is, after all, why I pay you what I do. To create compelling and misleading evidence."

Beck just looked at him for a moment. "Exactly," Beck said. He scooped up his photos and tossed them into his briefcase, dropped the plastic chunk in, slammed the case. "If this was a trick, sir, I'd have a whole lot more to show you." He nodded curtly. "Sorry to waste your time."

"I can be indulgent with the ones who serve me well," Fisk rumbled. And Beck was dismissed.

Fisk lit a thin cigar and sat alone, immobile, contemplating his empire.


	2. Cad

**PART ONE: A HARD BARGAIN**

**Tuesday, October 29**

With a thwack, the ball rebounded and sizzled through the air towards Peter's head. A flick of the racquet sent the ball back at the wall to rebound, whipping at his opponent. A hoarse shout, and the ball was speeding back. Peter saw it moving at full speed, but his mind was just that much faster; he instinctively knew its path, where it would ricochet from the wall, how it would approach him, the ground he would have to cover. He stepped forward almost far enough, let out a shout, and missed the ball by two and five sixteenths inches.

"Harry," he panted, "you're an animal." The ball caromed off the back and side wall then dribbled along the floor.

"Yeah, I know," Harry said with a grin, wiping his forehead with his fuzzy wrist bracelet. "Whew, you really had me going, Parker."

"You also know," Peter said with a gesture, pretending to struggle for air, "one of these days I'm gonna whup you."

"We all gotta dream," Harry said with a huge grin. His normally immaculate mat of wiry auburn hair was disheveled, and his pointed pixie face was mischievous with victory. Both young men had sweat maps on their shirts.

"You _know _you're in my dreams," Peter said with a grin, batting his eyelashes.

"Whyyieotta," Harry said, then he threw up his hands. "Let's get moving. Class at three." They grinned at each other.

"Nature of Science, right?" Peter said. Harry nodded. "Yeah," Peter said, "I got News Writing. Wish I'da remembered that when we were playing. I could have closed my eyes and got my head knocked off."

"What's that got to do with it?" Harry asked as he opened the small door in the back of the court. "Like you need your head to work for a newspaper."

**xXx**

A few minutes later they were in their street clothes and headed out of the gym when the door opened and an attractive redhead wafted in.

"If it isn't Mary Jane Watson, International Dilettante, prowling for prey," Harry said with a grin. "What are you doing here, MJ?"

"Oh, just came for a whiff of testosterone," she said wryly. "Harry, I had Gwen drop me off because I figured you'd be slapping those little blue balls around." She arched an eyebrow. "Take me costume shopping! I command it!" she said imperiously.

"I have class in less than half an hour," Harry said, checking his watch.

"Uh, yeah, Nature of Science. Because somebody's hard up for a GE credit. But if you go, you take a nap," she said thoughtfully, "so instead… you should take MJ costume shopping."

"Good luck, Harry," Peter said, slapping him on the shoulder with a grin.

"Okay, you've bewitched me," Harry sighed. "We go costume shopping." He turned to Peter. "By which she means she's going to go get _me_ a costume. I wanted to be Gomez Addams. She said no."

"Gotta stay thematic, and Morticia is _not_ a redhead," Mary Jane said with a toss of her hair. "I got a few ideas. Let's jet."

"Okay, we're on our way," Harry said. "Soon as I drop Parker off."

"I think he'd rather walk," Mary Jane said, suddenly serious as she looked straight at Peter.

Harry hesitated. "Oh, come on," he said, "It's on the way."

"Wouldn't you, Parker," she said, not taking her eyes off Peter. Her voice was chilly. She crossed her arms across her chest.

"I'd be glad to walk," Peter said to her, then to Harry, "No big deal. I'll see you tonight," he said with a wave.

"See you later," Harry said with a small wave. Mary Jane grabbed the strap of his gym bag and pulled him through the door.

Peter sighed, hefted his bag, and walked out the front door in time to watch Harry's car pull away from the curb, stereo thudding. Mary Jane bothered to turn and wave at him, something cold in her eyes and something sharp in her smile. He smiled and waved back, then started trudging towards the campus. He should be able to make his three o'clock class on foot.

**xXx**

"I wish you wouldn't be so hard on him," Harry said, turning the stereo down. "He's paid his rent, full share, on time, for months. He's got better clothes, he pays attention in school, he even gets his freelance photography done. It's turned into a real job for him. Maybe, just maybe, you can reconsider your grudge. Yeah, he's a geek, but he's a _reforming _geek."

"No," Mary Jane said, settling back in the seat and crossing her arms. "I will _never_ forgive him for what he did to Gwen. He broke that poor girl's heart. She didn't know any better and she threw everything she had down the Parker Hole and she's _still_ wobbly about it." She started ticking off points on her fingers. "He's a cad. He's a liar. He stands people up. Everybody who's dumb enough to trust him gets burned." She shook her head. "I just can't see it. And I _don't_ want to have a perfectly good afternoon of costume shopping ruined by you busting out nice things to say about that jerk. Okay?"

Harry stared at the road. "Whatever, MJ, whatever."

**xXx**

Almost five thirty. Peter slung in the front door, tossed his heavy book bag in the chair, and scooped up the phone. He punched in a number that was so memorized that he didn't even have to stop to think. He spun around with the cordless and paced into the living room.

"Parker residence," came a wavering voice on the other end. "May speaking."

"Hey there, pretty lady," Peter said with a grin. "What's up?"

"Peter, hello," she said. "Good to hear from you."

"I was wondering if you have any swingin plans for Halloween. Figured you'd be distributing tooth decay," Peter said.

"And apples," Aunt May said indignantly.

"Sure, apples," Peter grinned. "Hey, if you want some help, I'm your man."

"Oh," she said, surprised. "Don't you have a party to go to?"

He hesitated for just a moment. "Actually, all the good parties are on the weekend," he said with a grin. "Whose bright idea was it to put Halloween on a Thursday, anyway?"

"If you would like to help, that's wonderful," Aunt May said. "I plan to start at six."

"I'll be there with bells on. Er, not bells," he said. "I will find some kind of costume, though, promise."

"See you Thursday," Aunt May said with a smile. "Goodbye, Peter."

"Catch you later," Peter said, and she hung up. He smiled for just a moment, then glanced at the clock as he put the phone on the cradle.

Plenty of time to get to his six o'clock dinner meeting.

**xXx**

Peter slid down into the booth, his hair still slick from his shower. He grinned at the young man seated in the booth across from him. "Afternoon, Herr Ramsey."

"Hello, Peter," the distracted man said, glancing around. His piercing blue eyes returned to Peter. "All good news today. Your bonus has been transferred to your account, the fall issue is selling like hotcakes, and I have your next assignment."

"Lay it on me," Peter said, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head, looking up at the ceiling.

"Contact. Get pictures of contact. Any kind that's interesting." After a fraction of a moment, he added, "No porn."

"Right," Peter said thoughtfully. "Contact, huh."

"Ties into epistemology, love, religion," Doug shrugged. "Here's our pizza."

"Doug," Peter said very seriously, "I think you just saved my life." The waitress slid a huge deep dish Ultra Supreme Luckee's Pizza on the table. "I'm about to drown in my own salivation."

Doug smiled. "Dig in. Do you read the paper?"

"Nope," Peter said, lifting out a huge mass of pizza and putting it on his plate. "Too depressing."

"Maybe this won't be," Doug said. He put a clipping on the table. Peter peered at it with interest.

The headline caught his eye immediately. _Mystery Photographer Shoots from the Edge._

"Hey!" Peter said, pizza forgotten. "That's _me!_"

His bio photo from the Planetary was with the article. He rapidly scanned the page. "Edgy and unusual, even bizarre," he skimmed, "A unique aesthetic," he glanced at Doug, raised an eyebrow, and polished his nails on his lapel, then back to the article, "came out of nowhere." He blinked. "All nice things," he said, his voice lost in wonder.

Doug grinned. "I thought maybe you hadn't seen it. That's your copy." Doug took a bite of pizza, reminding Peter he was starving.

After a few minutes of catastrophic damage to the pizza, the conversation resumed.

"Do you think you'll do other freelance work, or stick with the Planetary?" Doug asked.

"This is big," Peter said. "I mean, wow. But the Planetary has done good by me, and that's about all the work I can handle at the moment. Don't worry. I'll take care of you guys," he said with a grin.

Doug leaned back and smiled. "The Doctor will be most pleased to hear that."

"I just bet he will," Peter grinned back.

**xXx**

Peter cruised down the block, looking at the bungalow he shared with Harry. Harry's car, Mary Jane's car. The curtains closed, the lights on. Must be trying on costumes.

Or something.

Peter didn't know he was gritting his teeth. He sighed. Okay. Relax. He smiled to himself. Just go to a movie. Yeah.

He pulled around the corner and just kept going.


	3. Found Out

Peter walked out of the theater and down the row of bumpers towards his car. "Stupid movie," he muttered. "Plot holes you could drop a bus through. Cow actresses with skimpy shirts. That guy never once reloaded his gun." He shook his head. Then he stopped abruptly, and stepped between two cars.

"What?" he muttered as his senses tugged; some little fly, something out of place was buzzing in the web of senses that surrounded him.

He took a moment to sort it through carefully. Listened to himself, rather than to the outside world. What?

_Something up._ He looked up.

Across the parking lot was a high rise apartment building, pretty posh. And now as he looked, his senses deeply acute, he saw the figures in black stealth suits walking along the ledge. They reached the edge, one of them fired a grapple, and they began to climb. Five guys. Almost to the roof.

His mouth tightened and he frowned. "This is none of my business," he muttered. _But the guys! Bunches of them! Doing something naughty for sure!_

"Hey," he said, maybe more sharply than he meant to. "Every time, _every time _the spider ghost comes out to play it gets me," he said, jerking his thumb into his chest, "Peter Parker, in trouble."

_So why do you have that patch of mesh sealed to the small of your back, Parker? why bring your travelling clothes?_ the sly thought came to him. He looked again. No simple robbery, this. Too many, too high. Professional gear. Doesn't make sense.

_Atta boy_, came his thought.

"For the record," Peter muttered as he ducked down to change, "you suck."

Moments later his clothes were tightly bundled and stowed in his car, and he was bobbing and weaving between parked cars in his dark silky mesh. In under a minute he had reached the building, slapped onto the side of it, and whirled upward. He felt his blood whipping through him, his temperature rising, his joints loosening. He stopped blinking. This is living. This is wildness.

He felt positively elemental as he sprang and dodged up the sheer side of the building, feeling no pain, feeling only the surge of raw energy.

"Lightning for blood," he whispered to himself as the roof came within easy reach and he was not even warmed up yet.

Whoever they were, they wasted no time. As he peeked over the edge of the roof, he saw one of them standing by the open door, propping it open with his feet and keeping a sharp lookout. Then the other four came out, holding between them an occupied black plastic body bag zipped up tight.

No. We are _not_ having this.

Peter stealthily bounded over the edge of the roof and hopped soundlessly up on the stairwell roof over the door they had just exited.

"Bad thugs," he murmured, "no biskit."

They stopped and glanced around wildly, pulling out their pistols. One caught a glimpse of two pale eyes hanging in the darkness over the open door. He lined up and fired.

Silenced pistols. Huh.

The spider ghost whirled over the bullets and landed on the body bag, driving it out of their hands down to the ground. Under his mesh, Peter grinned. Right in the middle. Sometimes it was too easy.

As they reacted, jerking back and pointing their pistols, he dissuaded them. "C'mon guys," he said, "Lotsa internet dating services," as he dropped and lashed out, kicking the leg out from under one so he flew back, leg broken, slapping down on his stomach and sliding back along the roofing.

Peter adhered to the roof and gently poked up with one foot, snapping into the kevlar vest of the thug next to him and sending him popping up into the air, pistol skittering across the roof. The other two thugs squeezed off a couple shots as Peter carelessly spun out of the way and jabbed at the shoulder of one of the thugs; bone splintered in a most satisfying way, sending him crashing into his partner. They both slammed back into the door and collapsed in a heap.

The remaining thug lined his pistol up on the bag. "One move and she gets it," he rasped.

"Yeah," Peter grinned under the mesh, "Cause you're faster than me."

He darted forward, the thug pulled the trigger. The bullet rebounded off the door frame to the stairwell as Peter snagged the gun and passed his elbow across the thug's face with a meaty thud. Fighting thugs was so… relaxing, somehow.

Peter inspected the pistol he still held as the thug slid to the ground, senseless. He noticed that its serial number had not been filed off. The whole gun was a custom job, it never HAD a serial number. Military or paramilitary gear here. He tossed the gun up, caught it by its barrel, and absently thwokked a thug who was struggling to rise. Interesting.

He tossed the gun over his shoulder and crouched over the body bag. Then he zipped a webline out to the side. The thug whose leg had been kicked was lining up with a gun; the web smacked over his face and Peter tugged. The thug sailed through the air towards him, and Peter touched his chest and guided his missile-like flight into a chimney. With a resounding thud, the man bounced off the immovable object and slammed down on the roof.

Peter unzipped the bag. Well, she was still breathing. A middle-aged woman, unconscious. Peter caught a whiff of chloroform. Unkind. He shook his head. She was still alive and the thugs defeated. Job well done.

He squinted and looked a little closer. She looked familiar. Okay, spider brain, do your stuff.

Peter didn't read the papers, but he did watch television from time to time. She was the wife of a big shot city politician, Councilman Perry. Peter relaxed for a moment. And? And… Councilman Perry was being very public and very vocal about removing the Police Commissioner because of graft and corruption. Peter felt a sudden chill as he looked at the stirring, groaning thugs on the roof. Maybe this was even bigger than he thought.

The door to the stairwell was still propped open. He picked her up, freeing her from the bag, and trotted down the stairs into the building with her. Then he returned to the top of the stairs and examined the door; self-locking. Good. It was also armed with a silent alarm, so the cops should be on their way. Peter took one last look around to see if any of the attackers were in any shape to escape under their own power. Well, maybe. Bah. He looked over the side of the building and saw the lights on the approaching police cars flashing, their sirens silent.

Peter tugged the wedge out of the door and let it bang closed, providing a barrier between the thugs and their prize. Damsel in distress safe; check. Thugs bonked; check. Spider ghost exit stage left? He bounded off the roof, sailing towards the ground. Check and mate.

Catching onto the side of the building he propelled his fall's momentum into a leap that carried him into the trees. A few minutes later, Peter Parker started up his car, backed out of his parking spot, and drove away from the movie theater.

**xXx**

Beck lay motionless, chewing his lip, deep in thought. Across the street, on the roof that was only two stories lower than the one he was on, he saw the footsoldiers stir and help each other stand. Beck glanced down at his digital camcorder's replay, frozen on the shot where the shadowy creature landed in the middle of the group. He rolled over on his back and lay flat, looking up at the dim hazy glow of the sky's reflection of New York's light.

The good news? Sound and moving pictures of this critter. The bad news? It might take Fisk all of two seconds to realize that this film was intended to join Beck's growing collection of evidence linking Fisk's people to illegal operations and then back to Fisk, so when the time comes, Beck will have some protection against Fisk's wrath…

Beck shook off his ruminations and gathered his gear, moving to the fire escape on the other side of the building. One thing at a time.

"Fisk will come to me," he murmured. "I get to be the expert on this thing." He thought about what that meant for a second, then sighed deeply. "Magnificent."

**xXx**

Harry stood by the window, comfortable in his terrycloth bathrobe, a mug of hot chocolate in his hand. "Wonder where Peter is," he mused. "It's getting late."

"Maybe he doesn't want to interrupt anything," Mary Jane said archly, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Harry laughed, "that's probably it." He looked at Mary Jane mischievously. "Maybe he's at a wild party."

Mary Jane laughed out loud. "Yeah. Disco fever or something."

"Do _you_ have a party to go to?" Harry said, half kidding.

She stretched on the couch, in her sweat pants and tee shirt. She took her time, making sure every muscle was stretched properly, like a cat. Then she looked him in the eye. "I noticed you have some eggs and bacon in the fridge," she purred. "I'd love to have breakfast in the morning." She paused. "You tell me. Do I have a party to go to?"

"Whoah," Harry said with most of a grin. "You just made my whole night."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, tiger," she said with a beckoning smile.

They went into the next room.

**xXx**

Peter stood across the street and watched the lights wink out. Still two cars. He sighed. Then he got into his car. "Yeah," he muttered to himself. "Aunt May won't even know I'm in the building…" He started the car and slipped away into the never-ending glow of the darkened city.

**xXx**

Beck stepped into the darkened room. "You called for me, sir?" he said.

"Indeed I did," reverberated the rumbling voice from behind the massive desk. "The team that was sent to pick up Councilman Perry's wife was intercepted and defeated by a man in a black suit. A man who was superhumanly fast and strong. He used webbing." Fisk shrugged. "Come closer, Beck."

Beck came closer.

"These men first had some wild tale about a rival team. They were quickly persuaded to be more truthful." He reflected on that for a moment while Beck stood, waiting. Fisk looked Beck in the eye. "Were you involved in this appearance?" Fisk said, his voice low. Beck could feel the power of Fisk's voice in his bones.

"I was not involved," Beck replied. "I have told you everything I know about this guy in a black leotard. I swear it."

Fisk slowly nodded. "So he sticks to things. Shoots out web ropes. He's strong and he's fast and he's mysterious. I believe that you have told me everything you know." He took a moment to light another cigarette. "Know more. As of tonight, your new assignment will be to find out everything there is to know about this person. Cost is not an object." Fisk looked steadily at Beck.

"Understand," he said, "I want him working for me or dead."

"Yes sir," Beck said. "I should have results for you within the week."

Fisk smiled. "That is all, Beck. That is all."


	4. Trailed

**Wednesday, October 30**

As Peter drove around the corner, closing in on the rental bungalow he shared with Harry, he saw Mary Jane's car pull out and drive down the street. He pulled into her spot and got out, tossing the door shut and heading in.

Harry sat casually sprawled on the couch, the very picture of a content and relaxed young man. "How's it going, King of the Jungle?" Peter asked as he slung his bookbag down on the chair. He sniffed. Mmm. Bacon and eggs. And a double dose of Mary Jane's perfume. His smile faded.

"It's good to be me," Harry shrugged. He grinned.

"So what's your Halloween costume, Gomez?" Peter asked. He opened the fridge and pulled out some orange juice.

"I'm a devil, she's an angel," Harry said.

"That is _so_ backwards," Peter sighed, pouring himself a tall glass of juice.

"It'll be a good time," Harry shrugged. "Hey, are you going to Gwen's party tomorrow?"

"Can't," Peter said too quickly. Harry glanced over at him, and Peter caught the look. "Halloween is one of the best times to get some pix, and the Planetary is a great buyer for that sort of creepy stuff, and cutesy Better Homes and Sanitariums sort of stuff with the little kids who look like an orange diaper who swear they're pumpkins." He shrugged. "I'll be working late."

"Can't argue with that," Harry said. He picked up the remote and snapped on the television.

Peter finished his drink with one whirring swallow. Then he rinsed out the cup. Damn. The whole house smelled like Mary Jane's perfume. He headed back to his room.

Peter quickly changed, then stepped into the bathroom. Great. Mary Jane's hairbrush and lipstick were by the sink. Just wonderful. Marvelous.

He stepped back into his room and lay on his back on his bed, fingers laced behind his head, ignoring things.

That didn't last long.

"Where you off to?" Harry asked as Peter walked back out in the living room with his camera bag.

"New photo assignment, get some pictures of 'contact.' I'm headed to the hospital, I think I can get some good shots there."

"Fair enough," Harry said with a dismissive wave. "Take care of yourself, big guy."

Go to the hospital to get pictures of contact. Because there's none to be had at home. Peter tried not to scowl as he dropped into his car, fired it up, and left the scene.

**xXx**

Darkness was seeping into the sky from the top down when Peter pulled in to his parking spot at the bungalow. He hopped out of the car with his camera bag and trudged into the house.

Harry's door was shut, and Peter heard some of that big band music Harry liked playing inside. Ah. Calculus. Harry needed the music to do his calculus. Peter dropped his bags off in his room and stood stock still.

_Dark night. Windy night. Autumn is in the air. Season of change. Trees doing exciting things. No one will be out. A fine night. A fine night for flying._

As Peter felt his temperature begin to rise, he sat down at his desk with a deliberate thump. "Scuse me," he said, "maybe you don't give a tinker's cuss about the English I have due tomorrow, but I do. I'm already needling a low C in that class, Mister Tights, and I think perhaps I should do my homework."

_Bah. It'll keep. Tonight is one in a million._

"I wonder," Peter mused, "if it could be said I'm a driven person. Driven by one of those old ladies from Pasadena, or the Jungian equivalent, who can't see over the damned dashboard."

_It's good to be me being you,_ came the thought. _Besides. If you try to do something productive like homework or sleep I have nothing better to do than pester you until I get what I want._

Peter sighed.

Then he reached for his mesh.

**xXx**

Practice makes perfect. Peter slapped down on the roof and looked across the five lane highway. He had started by bounding from this roof to the light pole on this side of the street to the light pole on the other side of the street then up to the building and over. And that had been a good start.

Then he had bounded from this roof directly to the opposite lightpole and up. And tonight… "Well, tonight's special," he whispered to himself in his mesh. Then he grinned and sprinted to the edge.

He uncoiled with all his strength at the edge of the roof, sailing out into empty space, over the half-empty street below, whistling through the air.

He slapped into the building on the far side, a solid fifteen feet higher than the lamp post and a half dozen yards further from his jumping point. Peter grinned, his heart pounding madly.

"I'm insane," he whispered to himself as he climbed up the wall. "Maybe I should sign up for the long jump at school." He bounded from that roof to the one across the alley that was the beginning of his roof highway.

Something's wrong.

Out of place.

Then gone.

Peter froze on the rooftop, and looked slowly and carefully around, sifting through his thoughts. What. What's the matter.

A light. A blinking light. Peter got a vague image of a little red light in a shadow that blinked once and then shut off. It was a memory the brain could mostly recover, but one that wasn't attached to its surroundings. Peter probed the shadows with his senses until he caught a whiff of brick powder.

He walked over to the chimney near the center of the roof and peered into its shadow. There. A small black camera, it had been bolted to the brick. Peter jerked it loose with one smooth motion.

Wireless. Battery powered. And unless he was totally wrong, motion sensitive. Had it already beamed its pictures elsewhere? He turned to see what it was pointed at. A cold feeling settled across him. He couldn't think of anything besides pigeons and himself that it could be looking for.

"Great," he muttered. He crushed the camera with one swift squeeze, and dropped it. Whoever put it here can find _that._ Then he sat down. "Time to think."

He had most likely been spotted, and someone was looking for him. Again. He thought briefly of Kravinoff, who had probably found him the same way. Randomizing his route would expose him to fresh danger every night. A pattern is lethal for one keeping a secret.

"Only one answer," he muttered, his heart sinking. "Time to face it. The exercising has _got_ to end. I can't afford the risk."

_No no, laughing boy. Not even if you _wanted_ to._

"Once a week, tops," Peter muttered. "And no interfering with crimes in progress."

_Say what you want_, whispered the spider ghost. _Swear whatever oath makes you feel better. Try not to get too blasphemous. No oath there is can keep you from the night wind when it wants you to come out and play._

"We'll see about that," Peter said, narrowing his eyes. He stood up. "It's time to go home." He bounded off the roof.

In the busy city, with its never ceasing cacophony of machine noise, his senses did not isolate as unusual the thudding chop of helicopter blades far above…

**xXx**

"You have good news for me?" Fisk rumbled as he stepped into the side meeting room.

"Sorry to pull you out of the meeting," Beck grinned, his eyes shining, "but I've got a lock on him. I was in the chopper already when I got a signal from one of my cameras that it was tampered with. _Crushed_, more like. By the time we got over the location he was just leaving, and with the infrared gear we tracked him to a bungalow across the East River. We got him, sir," Beck said.

"So you know who he is."

"Almost," Beck shrugged. "I didn't want to get too close to scare him off, so I set a watcher at the place and ran a background check. It's rented by a couple college kids, Peter Parker and Harry Osborn. That fits with the random activity of the shadowy figure, sir. He doesn't seem to have a purpose. Probably is a college kid."

"Good work," Fisk nodded. "I've made arrangements to get you a special agent to assist in the work. I don't want you risking yourself in direct contact. May I introduce you to Mr. Lincoln."

Fisk's assistant, who had scurried in behind him unnoticed, moved to the side door. "Mister Lincoln," he said, "Mr. Fisk is ready for you."

Beck's first impression of the man who stepped into the room was that he was tall, almost seven feet. He was more than tall. He was broad, heavily muscled. His suit was black, as was his band collar shirt, and they contrasted sharply with the dead white of his skin, the bleached paleness of his hair. His eyes were pink and watery, and his hands were huge. He moved noiselessly.

"Mister Lincoln, this is Mister Beck. He will be instructing you," rumbled Fisk. Lincoln looked down at Beck and slowly smiled. His teeth were sharp.

"It will be a pleasure," he whispered in a voice like sandpaper. Beck nodded and attempted a smile.

"Terms," Fisk said. "You are entitled to offer the wall crawler two hundred and fifty thousand dollars per year as a retainer, plus bonuses, for cat burglary and other necessary tasks." He lit a cigarette and looked speculatively at Lincoln. "See to it," he said, the words rolling out of his huge bulk, "that he says yes."

Lincoln smiled, then nodded his huge head. His eyes never left Fisk's eyes.

"Right," Beck said. "That's all very nice. But I'm going to need a little more backup." He raised his eyebrows at Fisk. "If he does decide to say no."

Fisk and Lincoln looked at him blankly.

"You seen this wall crawler move?" Beck asked. "I mean, Mister Lincoln here is very impressive. But—"

"You'll work with what you're given," Fisk said dismissively. "I must get back to my meeting." He turned and steered his incredible mass through the doors back into the meeting.

"I'll be enough," whispered Lincoln.

"We'll just have to see, won't we," Beck said, looking after Fisk, his nostrils flared and his lips tight.

"I'll be," Lincoln said, his hand darting out and bunching the entire front of Beck's shirt in one handful, "enough." He hauled Beck up to eye level. Beck's feet dangled almost a foot off the floor. There was strength in those hands, strength unguessed.

"Believe me," Beck said with a hard smile, "I'm not the one you have to convince…"


	5. Halloween

**Thursday., October 31. HALLOWEEN.**

Aunt May opened the door, and blinked. Peter stood on the stoop in a black turtleneck, black suit jacket, and black slacks. He smiled at her.

"Peter, where's your costume?" she said with a smile as he strolled in and she shut the door.

He wordlessly reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of plastic Groucho Marx glasses, with the nose and the furry eyebrows on a plastic frame. With a gesture he snapped them open and slipped them on. "I don't DO costumes," he said. "And not nearly with your fancy touch."

She blushed. "Do you like it?" she asked, turning sideways. She wore a pink dress, a ribbon in her hair, and little fairy wings made of unbent clothes hangers and pantyhose, spray painted.

"Fabulous," Peter said, years of practice helping him contain his laughter behind a fond smile. "Now, since you got _apples_ for the little squirts that will be trick or treating tonight, I thought I'd go out and get them some candy, something to spoil their dinner and exasperate their parents." Peter grinned.

"Oh, fine," Aunt May said. "Don't be long. I expect them to start coming around six." She frowned. "It's rush hour, you know."

"Trust me, I'm a pro," Peter said. "I'll be back before you know I'm gone."

"I do have tootsie rolls," Aunt May said, a bit worried. "Do children still like tootsie rolls?"

"Oh yeah," Peter chuckled. "I have an ulterior motive. Whatever we don't hand out I get to keep."

"Ah," she said, nodding sagely. "You shouldn't eat a lot of candy, Peter. It isn't good for you."

"I brush twice a day and floss daily and, believe me," he said, "I get my exercise. I'll be back in a minute, you won't even miss me." And he was gone.

She sighed and smiled, then started bundling her candy into gauze wrappers for each trick-or-treater. She wondered what kind of costumes would show up on her stoop tonight.

**xXx**

The door creaked open and the attractive blonde in a bunny suit smiled. "Harry! MJ!" she said. "Glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it," Mary Jane said as she breezed past. "So how are we doing so far, Gwen?" she asked.

"Pretty good?" Gwen shrugged. Her nose was painted pink, and rays of whiskers were drawn on her face with eyeliner. Her hair was arranged around the base of the bunny ear headband, and she was in a pink leotard with a white puff of a tail.

"Quit staring," Mary Jane said as she prodded Harry. He looked at her, amused, his strap-on horns poking up out of his hair. He swept his plastic cloak up, tucking his nose into the crook of his elbow, and glared at her over his cloak-wrapped arm.

"But I am lust and evil incarnate! And I have a plastic pitchfork!" He poked her with his pitchfork and she squeaked, and they headed into the living room.

"Halo's crooked, hon," Harry noted absently, though that wasn't what caught his eye about her sheer white angel outfit. She shrugged.

"Let it ride," she said with a sly smile. "Hey people, we're here, so things can get started." She smiled brilliantly at the couple on the couch. "Hey, Tandy, how you doin?" she asked.

The platinum blonde smiled at her from the couch. "I'm an elf," she said, tossing her long flowing hair back and smiling. She wore a leather vest laced up the front, tights, boots, Vulcan rubber ears. "He's my Ringwraith," she added, pointing at a skinny black kid sitting on the couch next to her holding a glass of punch and draped in a black sheet. He started, grinned, then grabbed at his makeshift hood and managed to pull it up over his head.

"I'm s-s-ccary," he said, wiggling the fingers of his free hand. She rolled her eyes and jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

"Cut it out before you make everybody scream and drop their drinks," she said.

"D-dd-don't I g-get a s-s-ss-scythe?" he said.

"Ringwraith," she said patiently. "Not Death."

"Right, I kn-n-new that," he said.

"That's good, Ty-ty-eye eye rone," boomed a voice from the doorway to the music room. A tall square shouldered man filled the doorframe. "Long as you know what you're dressed up as."

"Hey Flash, how's it going?" Harry said. "What are you? Towelboy?"

"Scuse me," Flash said, striking a pose. "I am _Hercules!_"

"Ah," Harry said, nodding sagely. Mary Jane half restrained her grin.

"L-ll-looks l-like a sh-h-eet to me," Tyrone commented.

"Difference between your sheet and my sheet?" Flash replied. "I make this look good."

"Now cut it out, you two," Gwen said, breezing in past the new arrivals. "We've got the food all set up in the kitchen. Flash, your laurels are loose." Gwen fussed with the fake ivy in Flash's curly copper hair.

"There's a quotable quote," Harry muttered, and he and Mary Jane laughed as they found their way to the kitchen.

"Hey, MJ," Gwen asked, catching up. "Where's Peter?"

**xXx**

Peter's senses unreeled before him as he moved. He hit the 5:15 bus downtown just right, then he found all the holes in the crowd to get into the Wal-Mart with uncanny speed for a casual mover. He hit all the right candy displays, his senses auto-calculating tax, quantity discounts, and values without him asking it to. Then he was in precisely the shortest and thinnest line.

The harried clerk checked his purchases out, then Peter was absently looking across the crowd as he slapped down precise change. To the penny. Including tax. The clerk smiled and blinked, and he scooped up his purchases and was on the move.

"Maybe this is my new squirreling," he murmured to himself as he slid right into the bus as it pulled up to the curb, dropping exact change into the machine at the front. "Maybe this is how grownups do it." His smile broadened. "Can't wait to do taxes this year."

He looked out the window, thoughtful. "Maybe," he murmured to himself, "this is _better _than squirreling." He pretended that some part of him did not ache with loss at the thought.

**xXx**

"Dad, can you handle the door?" Gwen said over her shoulder.

"Elementary, my dear Gwendie," He said, standing tall and thin in his greatcoat with his deerstalker hat. He lit up his pipe, the long curved Victorian one he normally kept on the mantle. He smiled at her fondly and headed over to the door to manage the influx of college kids. The doorbell rang steadily with more partiers.

"I even convinced him to bust out his old magnifying glass he used to use when he was on the force," Gwen said with a smile at Mary Jane. "Thanks for helping out."

"Only so much testosterone you can handle in one sitting," Mary Jane said with a devious grin. They heard Harry's rapid, high laugh as he scored in the male pecking order establishing itself in the living room. "All that flexing and growling. It's only interesting if I'm at the center of it."

Gwen handed her a knife and the peanut butter as she started cutting up more celery stalks. "You're the sort who got men to kill each other in rapier duels in the middle ages," Gwen said.

"Takes all kinds, Miss Needlepoint While My Hubby Gets His Head Chopped Off in the Crusades."

"A bit early yet to work out next year's costumes," Gwen pointed out archly. "So how's Harry treating you these days?"

"Like a princess because he values his life," Mary Jane said as though stating the obvious. "And the lummox?"

"That's not very nice. I don't call Harry Pixie Boy."

"True. How about Flash Thompson then?" Mary Jane said, not in the least rebuked.

"Predictable," Gwen said, "and trustworthy and reliable."

"Ooh," Mary Jane said, squinting and pursing her lips. "Sounds like Gwendie is looking for the Parker Antidote."

"Now, come on," Gwen said, not looking up from cutting the celery. "Let's leave Peter out of this."

"Did you invite him? You know, Peter?" Mary Jane said, blithely ignoring the words and the sentiment behind them.

"Yes," Gwen said. "He didn't reply, but… you know Peter. Never know when he might show up."

"Don't hold your breath," Mary Jane said wryly. "I think Peter, I think shallow, flaky, jerk," she said thoughtfully.

"If only," Gwen said, something bitter in her voice. Mary Jane raised her eyebrows.

"If only what?" she said.

Gwen glanced at her, then stared back down at the carefully cut celery. "If only he was shallow and flaky, and just a jerk. That would have been okay."

"Pervert?" Mary Jane asked, lifting one eyebrow even higher.

"MJ!" Gwen said, her face flushing. "No!" She glanced around, then returned to her task. "No, nothing like that. But he's _not_ shallow. There's something else going on with him. Something deep and dark. Something murky. Something dangerous." She shook her head. "He works overtime to hide some secret, and I never found out what it was. That's why I had to leave him. I couldn't share him with… with whatever he's hiding. I couldn't compete with his secrets and I didn't feel like I should have to," she said simply.

"I never saw any of that," Mary Jane said dismissively.

"_You _never loved him, either," Gwen pointed out dryly.

For just a moment, the thought gave Mary Jane pause.

**xXx**

Peter strolled down the sidewalk, effortlessly weaving through the crowd. Then he hesitated, his step faltering. Something. Something out of place. He followed his instinct and glanced into the book store across the street.

The guy standing at the checkout desk was wearing a ski mask.

Peter turned to fully stare through the window. This was not a prank.

For a moment his senses flashed alive, his blood raced, he felt his muscles and joints loosen and prepare to hurl him into action. But he had no mesh.

_And let's face it, whatever the spider ghost may be, Peter Parker is no hero._

"Thanks," he muttered.

_Not going to get involved with crimes in progress_, his thoughts reminded him.

Angle, trajectory, through the window and a quick spurt of web, situation over.

"No," he managed through gritted teeth.

_No?_

"Gotta get my mesh," he hissed, and he turned and sprinted for the bus stop that would drop him off five blocks from Aunt May's house.

Somewhere, forlorn, a thought echoed in the back of his mind.

_It's going to be too late._


	6. Unprepared

Peter rushed through the front door, tossed his sack of candy on the couch, and was up the stairs in two bounds as Aunt May registered that he was home. "Peter?" she said uncertainly.

"Forgot something," he said as he hit the floor moving. "Be back." He was back out the front door.

Aunt May blinked.

stupid stupid stupid stupid Peter thought to himself. One or the other, either give this up or do it. But this is stupid. This is stupid.

Then his clothes were safely on the back porch in a bundle and he was airborne, swinging at top speed, firing at high points on buildings, wrapped in mesh, working up dangerous momentum.

Must get back. It's too late. This is stupid.

Less than fifteen minutes had passed between the time he left the scene and the time he slapped down on the roof of the building opposite the bookstore. The street below was bathed in red and blue lights; police cars and ambulances were choking the narrow street below.

Bodybags. Carried out of the bookstore.

Peter sprang across the street and stealthed down to where he could hear what was going on.

"It's a damned shame," the officer was telling the detective that had just showed up. "We busted in, the gunman had a partner. Three hostages, both gunmen, and one of our boys bought it. The gunman was holding things up with an automatic, but his partner had an smg and he just started hosing. Sniper got 'im, for all the good that does us now."

"God," the detective replied, lighting his cigarette. "What's _wrong _with people these days?"

Peter wondered the same thing as he pulled back into deeper shadows. His hands were shaking. He wondered why.

"It's not like I was involved," he whispered.

His hands shook a little more.

**xXx**

"She huddled alone in the car," Tandy said, Tyrone's hood over her shimmering pale curls. Her dark, serious eyes took in the audience huddled around the flashlight on the floor. "She waited for him to return; she waited barely daring to breathe, and yet the scratching, the fitful horrible slow scratching persisted. Then, finally, after what felt like a hundred years, a car pulled up behind her. She waited, somehow more terrified still, when she saw a police officer at her door. She unlocked it and jumped out, and he put his arm around her. 'Don't look back,' he said, and he pushed her from the car. But when she got to the police car, she turned to look—and there was her boyfriend, who had gone to get help, hanging upside-down from the tree, his nails, scraping the roof—"

"RAAAA!" yelled Flash, grabbing the backs of those on either side of him. Gwen slapped at him, Harry keeled over backwards laughing, and Mary Jane rolled her eyes.

Tandy's eyes narrowed to slits as she stared at Flash, who was guffawing. "I wasn't finished," she said quietly in a voice that cut through the merriment. "That wasn't very nice."

"Dija see em jump?" Flash said. "Great story!"

"Oh, never mind," Tandy said, snapping off the flashlight. She stood and stretched.

"Aaand it's midnight," John Stacy said, walking into the room and somberly inspecting the assembly through his magnifying glass. "School night. Everybody out." He smiled to take the sting out of the words.

"How about it, big guy," Mary Jane said to Harry, gripping his chin. "Give a lady a lift to your place to pick up my car?"

"Hey, I can't think of a reason not to," he grinned. "Great party, Gwen."

The sentiment was echoed from the others assembled, as people left more steadily than they had arrived.

"See you tomorrow, babe," Flash said, planting a kiss on her forehead. "Me and the boys are gonna go do some trick or treating." He grinned.

"I _don't_ want to know about it," Gwen said.

A few more minutes of goodbyes and the Stacys had the place to themselves.

"Great party, Gwendie," John said reflectively, taking a puff from his pipe.

"Thanks dad, and thanks for all your help." She turned and trudged toward the kitchen.

"You know, you _could_ invite him to a lunch or something," John said from the doorway.

"What?" she said, turning with a guilty start. Then she scowled. "I _hate_ having a detective for a father. Besides," she said, running dishwater, "I want him to come talk to me for a change."

"Tell you what," he said, shrugging off his greatcoat. "I'll clean up. You go to bed. I can sleep in and you can go and work your already exhausted brain at school."

"You?" she said, "sleep in? I'll believe it when I see it." After a brief pause, she said, "Thanks, dad."

He gave her a hug.

**Friday, November 1**

Harry and Mary Jane threaded through the streets headed back to the bungalow on their way back from the party. Harry reached out without looking and turned the stereo down.

"Ut oh," Mary Jane said archly, "Harry wants to talk in the car!"

"Ha ha," Harry said dryly. "I've been thinking, MJ."  
"Double ut oh," she said.

"About Parker."

"Want to go for three?" she mused out loud.

"Can we be serious here for a minute?"

"After midnight, with me dressed up like an angel and you like a devil? Sure, why not," she said, leaning back and watching the road.

"I was thinking about Parker," Harry said. "I know you don't like him, and you've got your reasons. But I think if you really want to get rid of him it's simple." He glanced over at her. "Replace him. I need a room mate, but I'd rather have you than him any day."

"Oh, Harry," she sighed. "I'm not ready for that. I can't believe you even brought it up."

"But," he floundered, "I thought—you know, we—"

"Stop, just, just stop," she said with a smile. "No. Answer is no. Geez, Harry."

"Well, why not?" he said, staring at the road, jaw clenched.

She cleared her throat. "I'm just not ready for that level of commitment," she said with the sort of voice people use when they want to be sincere. "I need a reason?"

"Guess not," Harry gritted out, and they sped up a little.

**xXx**

"Well, that's that," Peter said softly to himself as the credits rolled at the end of one of the many Halloween movies. Peter couldn't rightly remember which one it was, but it had Jamie Lee Curtis in it and that was the main thing. "Maybe I gotta get me a soundtrack," he mused with a grin. He glanced at the slowly ticking wall clock. Quarter after midnight. "And I'm still up why?" he wondered.

He sat on the worn, battered couch and looked at the television. He snapped it off. Then he sat, listening to the ticking clock, smelling the unmistakable and indelibly imprinted smell of his childhood home. He glanced into the perfectly ordered kitchen, looked around each piece of furniture, the wallpaper that had been here since the fifties. He had a sudden overwhelming sense of home. "I could stay here tonight," he murmured.

Then his gaze strayed over his camera bag. He sighed. Needed more film and to get the rest of his shots, from the hospital. Get it all developed tomorrow, get some more snaps. He smiled to himself. Didn't hurt, having money.

He locked the door behind himself and thought his own thoughts all the way to the bungalow.

He slowly drew up to the curb two blocks down. Dammit, not again. Harry's car, MJ's car, the lights off. He sighed.

"I'll go in the window and just get my things and go," Peter muttered. "Surely they're not doing anything in my room."

Maybe, just maybe it's time to seek alternative housing, he thought. Because it would be a bad thing if I ever let on, even to myself, how much it hurts to see Harry and MJ… together.

"Okay, will you shut up already?" he snapped at himself. Quietly. "We're being sneaky here."

This from Peter Parker, his thought retorted. Then they were all quiet in the same head and they strolled down the sidewalk towards the house.

Less than a block, and he felt that uneasiness, that alarm. He stopped. Something wrong. Something about the house. He studied it over.

Then he noticed the small wood spikes from broken wood where the door, hinges and all, was ripped right off the frame. Then propped carefully back in place.

Trap.

And if the door was ripped off… those cars… Peter's face drained of blood.

"Harry," he whispered to himself. "Mary Jane."

And the spider ghost was moving.

Felt strange, using his power while in street clothes. He felt his limbs chafe at the baggy clothes, felt his heightening senses rebel at the distracting rustling feel of his clothing as he moved. Then he was into his room. He opened his bedroom door just a crack and peeked out.

On the couch, Harry and MJ lay unmoving. His blood froze for a moment, then he saw the duct tape over their mouths, around their wrists and ankles. They must still be alive or they wouldn't be restrained. There. Sitting in the chair opposite the doorway. He just saw a huge knee. Big guy. Tough guy.

Peter drew back silently. Think. Think. What to do? How to do this without totally blowing his cover?

His eyes fell on the solution. A feral grin crossed his face.


	7. Rescue

Peter slowly and quietly pushed his car into the driveway, pointing towards the street, all its doors unlocked. He slipped around to the driver's door and glanced inside the car. Keys in the ignition. Good. A silent shadow, he ghosted around to the side of the bungalow and back into his bedroom.

Here we go, Peter thought. Then he darted out of the room. The huge figure instantly registered his presence. Peter grinned, and unleashed the fire extinguisher.

With a hollow roar, it cascaded thick fog and chemical goo all over the assailant. In one smooth motion the huge man was on his feet and lunging for Peter.

"Yeah," Peter said to himself as he hefted the extinguisher and drove its tank square into the face of his attacker. With a ringing thud, the big man stumbled; no way a puny college kid could have unleashed a hit like that. Peter hurled the tank into the mist, unerringly bouncing it off the big man, and he spit a thin stream of fluid onto him. Then he snatched Harry and Mary Jane's unconscious bodies and bounded to the front door, knocking it down and leaping for his car.

As he tossed his rescued friends into the back seat, he heard a deep hiss and the huge man staggered clear of the front door. For just a moment, Peter froze.

Still up? That freak is _still up?_

Peter dropped into the driver's seat and started the car as the huge man took a couple stumbling steps towards them. Peter tore out into the street as the massive man broke into a run towards him. As Peter gunned it and screamed away on the road, the huge man in a black suit launched himself through the air and smashed into the car.

Peter swore as the car shifted and swerved with the tremendous weight its back. Harry and MJ stirred, groaned, blinked.

Peter glanced in his rearview and saw the huge man kneeling on the trunk, gripping the roof.

Oh yeah?

Peter stomped on the accelerator and pushed the strained vehicle into a punishing corner maneuver; the huge man on the back of the car hissed again, and his fingers punched into the back windows as he gripped the roof. The car almost rolled, but Peter managed to keep it up; no tires blew. Then the huge man on the back flexed with a massive effort that ripped the roof of the car free in the back and bent it forward at an angle. Now Peter glanced back through the missing roof. He saw the ugly pug face of the giant, thin pale hair whipping in the wind, eyes unblinking and full of rage.

Mary Jane tried to scream, and she and Harry struggled to get down on the floor in the back seat.

No.

Peter thought he heard a hissing chuckle as he swerved again. This time he aimed for a lamp post on the sidewalk; sure enough, the big man was forced to lean off to the side. One of the tires did blow this time, and Peter's whole world was suddenly reduced to instants, moments of intense focus.

The car did not flip.

Then there was a wrenching yank, and the car wobbled as Peter pushed it to its limits. The car was lighter now. Peter had banked close enough to the light pole to catch their passenger and knock him loose. As Peter glanced in the rear view, he saw the big man get up and start running.

The busted car handled erratically, but Peter managed to coax it along at good speed. Wind tore through the inside of the car as Harry and Mary Jane helped each other get loose of the duct tape.

"Are you okay!" Peter yelled.

"I think so!" Mary Jane yelled back over the wind of the opened car. "My leg hurts but I think it's okay!"

"I'm taking you to the Stacys!" Peter hollered, then he buckled down and _drove._

Only a few minutes later he screeched the trashed car to a halt in front of the Stacy residence. He bounded out of the car and up the front steps. He rang the doorbell repeatedly, then jumped down the stairs. "You getting clear of the tape?"

"Clear enough," Mary Jane managed. "What are you going to do?"

"When you get loose, call the police," he said quickly. "And an ambulance, but the police for sure. Go inside. Lock the door." He turned and ran down the sidewalk, back the way they had come from.

"What are you going to do?!" Mary Jane called after him.

**xXx**

Peter didn't have far to go before he saw the big van, smelled a whiff of his saliva tracer from it. Inside, he saw the huge white knuckles of the fist gripping the wheel. Peter hoped whoever this monster had hijacked was still alive and not too maimed.

Glancing around, he saw a large postal drop box bolted to the sidewalk. He wrenched it free of the concrete sidewalk, and eyed the van. Then he glanced ruefully down at the mailbox. "Look, ma, I'm using a Federal missile!" With that, he cranked back and sent the mailbox smashing through the van's windshield.

The van swerved, hopped up on the curb, almost avoided a group of trash cans, scraped off a stairwell, and spun to a halt. The mailbox sailed out, pushed by incredible strength. Peter saw the big man inside scanning the street. He saw Peter, and revved his engine.

"Come on and ram me, you insane freak," Peter muttered. "Looks like Frankenstein's newest monster comes with internalized bolts for only nineteen ninety nine more," he softly pattered, not paying any attention to himself.

The van squealed as it's tires spun wildly, and its fishtailing trajectory lined up on Peter. He let it come. Closer. The headlights got further apart, and still he did not dodge. Then in a single agile spring he went straight up.

With a crash, the van rammed into the front of the apartment complex hard enough to lift the back off the ground. Peter landed lightly on the roof, dropped down by the driver's side of the van. If anyone in the neighborhood heard anything, they weren't involving themselves. Peter wondered if, when questioned, anybody would have seen anything. Peter reached for the driver's door.

The door flew off its hinges, crashing into Peter as he prepared to rip it open. Surprised, Peter bounded back, shattered safety glass scattering. He shoved the door aside and stood ready as the giant pulled himself clear of the wreck.

"Okay, so let's do introductions," Peter said. "I'm the spider ghost and you're Timex."

"Bet that'll be even funnier the next time you say it," whispered the giant. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a massive handgun.

Peter zipped out a webline, snagging the gun and tugging it out of the giant's hand. "No," he said. "Bad thug. No gun." His muscles flexed in a sudden effort and he bent the barrel of the gun.

For just a moment, the two stood looking at the gun. Then they met each other's eyes.

The giant grinned, showing his sharpened teeth.

"I have an offer for you," he whispered in his ruined, guttural voice. "This is not the way it was supposed to happen. We could have had a nice, simple chat. But no. You gotta try to extinguish me. So let's start at the top. Howja like two hundred and fifty thousand a year plus bonuses?" whispered the big man, his eyes narrowing and his smile widening as sirens wailed closer.

"What?" Peter said, for a moment at a loss for words.

"This isn't the time," whispered the huge man. "I'll be in touch." Then, moving with surprising grace and silence, he vanished down the alley.

"Much as I'd like to know where you're going," Peter muttered, looking after him, "I've got some other business to attend to."

By the time the police showed up, the wreck was abandoned.

**xXx**

Peter strode down the sidewalk towards the Stacy residence. A police car was parked out front, and every light in the house was on. Peter sprang up the stairs and opened the door, heading in.

"Peter!" John Stacy said. "There you are. We were worried stiff."

Peter noted that Mary Jane and Harry were sitting on the couch, looking a little bruised and chafed but otherwise intact.

"How'd you do it?" Harry asked. "How did you get us out of there?"

"I snuck in the window like usual," Peter said, "In case you all were busy." Harry blushed. "Then," Peter continued, "I glanced in the living room and saw you two all laid out. I got the fire extinguisher, and jumped out. Nailed the big guy with a blast of foam to the eyes and dragged you two out to the car. You were awake for the rest of that." He shrugged. "And you all said I watched 'Ronin' too many times."

"You'd have to log a lot of Pole Position time to drive like this madman," Mary Jane said, shaking her head, watching Peter with a new thoughtfulness. "Your car is pretty wrecked."

Peter nodded. "My car is less important to me than my friends. My car can be fixed. There's no replacing you guys."

"Why did you run off?" asked the policeman who stood by the wall, keeping a low profile thus far.

Peter looked at him. "I thought I saw him carjack somebody, wanted to see if they were okay. I didn't find anything."

"Probably best for you. If you had encountered the suspect--"

"Suspect?" Harry said incredulously. "Oh, please, put this monster in a lineup for me!"

"Harry," John Stacy said softly, "there's a way things are done."

Harry lapsed into silence.

"The van has been found," the policeman continued. "Crashed."

"Good deal, crisis averted. Hey listen, I'm gonna go to Aunt May's and crash. I have class tomorrow."

"I am sympathetic to that, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you and Mr. Osborn and Ms. Watson to come with me to the station to give a statement."

As his friends got up to go with the officer, Peter looked at him once and headed for the door. "Let's make this short," he said, his voice tense.


	8. Hitman

Afternoon.

Peter trudged towards the bungalow, head down. He glanced up to see the repairman finishing his work on the front door. The door was open, so Peter walked in.

"Peter," Harry said, his face brightening as Peter walked in. "Good to see you. That was some night."

"That it was," Peter said.

"You must be exhausted."

"Well," Peter said, "I wasn't the most alert student today."

The repairman stood in the doorway. "I'm finished, Mister Osborn," he said.

"Oh, right," Harry said, standing up and fishing out his wallet.

"Hey, want me to pitch in?" Peter said.

"I got this," Harry said, and he handed the bills to the repairman and signed the clipboard. "Have a good one," he said to the repairman, who touched his cap and headed out.

"Thanks," Peter said.

"No problem," Harry shrugged, "I mean it. How about your car? What's the word?"

"The word is hosed," Peter said. "Alignment is screwed, tires screwed, the wheels in the back are screwed, trunk is screwed, windows, roof, shocks…" He sighed. "The _engine _is okay."

"Can you cover that?" Harry asked.

"I'm in a rental at the moment," Peter said. "Insurance will probably declare my car totaled. I should be able to get a new one with the settlement." He sat down at the table. "And the police will catch the bad guy and we will live happily ever after. Speaking of the police, they done with crime scene?"

"They were done when I got home from school," Harry said. He was quiet for a moment. "Thanks, Peter," he said. "Thanks for saving us."

"Oh, come on," Peter said with a dismissive wave. "You would have done the same for me, and I just got really, really lucky," he added. "That's what roomies are for."

"Yeah," Harry said. He glanced out the window. "What _now?_"

Peter got up and went to the door. He looked at the man who had parked in front of their bungalow and now got out of his car. He sighed, and his expression darkened. "That's Detective Brilhart," he said. "Great."

Peter opened the door before the detective rang the bell. "Detective Brilhart, I presume," he said.

"Parker," Brilhart nodded. "Can I come in?"

Peter reluctantly stepped aside and let the detective in. Brilhart's eyes were older than the rest of him, and he was lean and broad shouldered. He glanced around. "Nice place," he said.

"Brass tacks," Peter said. "We're busy men." Harry glanced at him sharply but said nothing.

Brilhart sat at the table and put a manila envelope down. He opened it and started laying out pictures. "This the guy?" he said.

Peter and Harry leaned over the table. "Oh yeah," Harry said. The pictures were taken from a distance, some of them, but one of them was a mug shot.

"His name is Lonnie Thompson Lincoln. He's a hit man mob enforcer for hire right here in New York. From all appearances, he was trying to use you guys for bait. Any idea what for?" he asked Peter directly.

"Search me," Peter shrugged.

"Do you think he'll come back?" Harry asked a bit more anxiously than he wanted to.

"Depends," Brilhart shrugged, "on whether you were the ones he wanted or you were convenient. Considering he made no demands and didn't even talk to you," he shrugged, "I think he wants you and Mary Jane and Peter. So that's why we're going to help you out," he said with a grin. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two small cylinders.

"These are panic buttons," he said. "Mary Jane already has hers. We're going to shadow the three of you for at least a week. If you see Lincoln, just flip the top," he said, demonstrating, "and push the little red button. Cops will swarm the place immediately."

"Great," Peter muttered.

"We'll cooperate fully," Harry shrugged.

"Peter?" Brilhart said.

"We are the model of cooperation," Peter nodded. "This should help you catch him. I _love_ being bait."

"Oh, and Peter," Brilhart said, his eyes hard. "I had a few questions about your statement."

"Can it wait?" Peter said, glancing at the clock. "I'm pressed for time, I gotta be in class in fifteen minutes."

"When you have a minute we can talk," Brilhart said. "Don't want to make you late for class."

Peter nodded at him, then went into his room and swapped out books and headed out.

Brilhart watched him go.

**xXx**

"My brain hurts," Peter muttered to himself. "Physics. It looks so _different_ on paper. I want to do trajectory demonstrations and exercises, not theoretical work. Ace the class _and _sleep through it at the same time."

Then he froze. The trees ahead, by the sidewalk. A very tall, very stealthy man waited for him.

"Great," Peter muttered. "Fabulous." He reached into his pocket and flipped the cover open to push the panic button. He clicked the button once. Then he strolled on towards where Lincoln waited.

"Peter Parker, spider ghost," whispered the huge man. "Good afternoon."

"What do you want," Peter said, his voice hard.

"You're in an awkward spot," the huge man hissed softly. "I know about Aunt May, the Stacys, Harry and Mary Jane, I have your schedule of classes. But you can make all of that go away. My employer wants you to do cat burglary for him. Two hundred and fifty thousand a year, plus bonuses. Say yes, everything is fine. Say no," he shrugged, "and it's time for more leverage."

To his credit, Lincoln heard the approaching police officers almost as quickly as Peter did. He looked at Peter with a cruel twist of the face that could be a fond expression. "Go think about it. I'll be in touch," he rasped. He turned to face the approaching police.

"Officers," he whispered, his eyes cold.

Five of them fanned out on the path, pointing their pistols at Lincoln. His back was to the small stand of trees by the path. Just under twenty feet between him and the police. Peter was off to the side.

"Go, Parker," one of the police said. Peter backed into the trees.

"You have the right to remain silent," one of the officers barked at Lincoln.

He chuckled, a chilling slithering whispering sound.

Then he moved.

The officers fired, but he slid around and under their fire as his hands tucked into his jacket and whipped free, a pistol in each. From his kneeling position he fired, bullets catching one officer in the face and another in the throat. They fired again as he spun around and towards them, bullets slicing through the air dangerously near him but somehow missing the vast agile target as he closed in.

He lashed out with his guns, punching the gunbarrels into the throats of two of the officers in one powerful, sleek drive. He yanked the gory barrels free as the officers keeled over, clutching their maimed necks. In a smooth motion Lincoln lined the two pistols up on the remaining officer, who turned to run. They boomed, and the officer was taken off his feet as half his head blew off.

Lincoln stood with his back to the trees. "Backup's on the way, Parker," he said in his chilling hoarse whisper. "Why are you still here?" Thick blood oozed down to the ground from his gun.

Peter felt himself trembling with rage, with nausea, with a kind of fear. Five men. Five police men were dead because he wouldn't lift a finger because he had to _protect his precious secret identity._

Shame washed him as he considered that the families of the dead men before him would not find that a compelling reason for their husbands and fathers and sons to be dead.

He didn't feel fully in control as he stepped out of the trees. His body was acting before his mind could catch up. He still struggled to grasp that in a handful of seconds Lincoln had effortlessly dispatched armed police. He must be punished. He must not get away with it.

"I tire of repeating myself," Lincoln whispered, turning to face him. "Go." Then he looked into Peter's eyes, and a slow cruel smile spread itself across his features. "Or stay," he whispered. "It's like that." He squared off. "Let's dance."

"No guns," Peter heard himself say as web shot out and glooped across the gunbarrels. Lincoln tossed the weapons away and darted in, his huge hands reaching for Peter's neck.

Must not let him get a grip on my neck, Peter thought distantly as his body whipped down to the side and lined everything up to release a blow to the meat of Lincoln's ribs. The whole world was reduced to that trajectory and that instant.

Peter let it go.

Something under the dark fabric of Lincoln's coat snapped, and the breaking rib echoed through the meat of his chest. Lincoln grunted as he was knocked off his feet and sent crashing into a tree.

"I can't be stopped," Lincoln hissed as he rebounded from the tree. Peter saw his fist coming, and slid to the side—a feint—

Lincoln's kick caught Peter in the belly, tossing him back. The big man closed in, his long arm uncoiling down at Peter.

Peter skipped to the side. "You don't understand," he said. He hopped through the air towards Lincoln and brought his foot down with his inhuman strength, crushing it into the lower hinge of Lincoln's knee. Something cracked and tore. Lincoln let out a hoarse gasp.

"What you do is wrong," Peter said as his senses saw into, through Lincoln's sleeve. They saw the way nerves lay in his elbow, the way the blood flowed, the way the bones meshed. Using one knuckle and all the strength at his disposal, Peter broke the whole assembly as Lincoln tried to pull a knife out of his jacket. The knife glittered as it twirled to the ground.

"No more," Peter said, driving a single two fisted blow into Lincoln's sternum. It snapped, breaking inward and tearing the cartilage that held the ribs to it. Lincoln's chest was now a broken ruin.

Peter grabbed his wrist and spun into him, the sudden move slinging Lincoln off his feet to fly over Peter, lanky legs sailing, and crash directly to the ground at his feet, shoulderblades first. Ribs snapped and shifted. Organs bulged into foreign territory as the borders in Lincoln's chest were busted further. Blood roiled into Lincoln's mouth.

His eyes were terrified.

Peter knelt by his head and stared him in the eye. Something wrong about this. No mesh. He needed the mesh when he did this. Peter Parker doesn't do this to people. The spider ghost does.

Quit whining and finish the job, came a thought.

Peter let the moment sink in. "I've beaten you, Lincoln," he whispered. "I didn't even break a sweat. I broke you, though, didn't I. Now you listen to me. You might walk again. Someday you might get out of the oxygen tent they're going to put you in. If you do, and if you ever, _ever_ try this again you might not live through it. Word to the wise. Quit while you're ahead."

The sirens were very close now, and Peter heard running footsteps approaching. Without breaking eye contact, he sprang off the ground up into the spreading arms of the oak tree. He crouched out of sight in the branches and held Lincoln's eye as the swat team and medics swarmed the scene.

The swat team overran the site, then one said "Clear!" into his tac net and the medics rushed on the scene. One checked the policemen, the other started looking Lincoln over.

"Holy cow," the medic said. "This guy stop a wrecking ball with his chest?"

"Hey, lookit this," said one of the medics, standing over Lincoln's dropped pistols. "What's that gunk on the gun?"

If Lincoln could have laughed, he would have.

The spider ghost was gone.


	9. Debriefing

Peter Parker sat on the bench quietly shaking, looking at his hands. He had struck precisely, cleanly, effectively. But there was no blood on his hands. No blood on his soul that wouldn't wash off. He may have been indirectly responsible for deaths today, but he didn't kill anyone.

_So it's okay to cripple someone but not kill them?_

Great, Peter thought. Spider's advocate. Lincoln's crippled body will serve as the prison for him, since a guy like that could break out of a normal one. And yes, I have the right. I was protecting myself and my family and my friends. But there has to be a way to keep the spider ghost and Peter Parker separate. For the sake of my life, my people, and my soul.

He felt again the feeling of liquid fire that had energized him when he was dismantling Lincoln. He shivered. That was evil. There was a dark joy in destroying his enemies. He hated how he loved the taste.

"Maybe I need to retire," he murmured.

A shadow fell over him, and he looked up. "Detective Brilhart," he said. "Hi."  
"Parker," Brilhart said with a nod. "Did you see what happened?"

"Lincoln confronted me," Peter shrugged. "The officers told me to run. I did. How did it turn out?"

"He killed all the officers," Brilhart said carefully, "then something bigger than him hit him very hard." He looked away. "Any idea what that thing might have been?"

Peter looked up into the chill gray sky. "Whatever it was," he said, "I wouldn't piss it off, that's for sure. Least you got your man," he added, looking at Brilhart directly.

"I've heard that before," the detective muttered. "Five men are dead, five good men. Sure there's nothing more you want to tell me here?"

"A man like Lincoln is bound to have enemies in the underworld," Peter shrugged. "Probably waiting for a prime opportunity to drop him, like red-handed on the scene where he killed policeman."

"That would be a clever answer, wouldn't it," Brilhart said. "Be careful, Peter," he said, then he half smiled as he rephrased; "Take care of yourself."

"Will do, detective," Peter said. "Thanks for the save."

Brilhart said nothing, he just walked away.

**Saturday, November 2**

Beck stood in the shadows of the board room, patiently waiting as the lieutenants of Fisk's sprawling empire filed out. He quietly approached.

"Lincoln was not enough," Beck said simply to the vast man who watched him as an eagle watches a mouse. "Lincoln made the offer to Parker. They were interrupted. Lincoln killed the officers. Then," Beck said, carefully inspecting his fingernails, "Parker effortlessly broke him." Lincoln looked Fisk directly in the eye. "Now we've antagonized him by trying to use brute force. From the beginning I believed that a little more finesse was in order. Okay, a _lot_ more finesse. We need a soft touch to make this work. He needs to be handled, not coerced."

"Already cared for," Fisk said, flicking an invisible speck of dust from his huge desk. "Klaus Voorhees is on the job."

Beck's forehead contracted in concern. "Voorhees? I thought he was too unstable for this sort of work."

"Special circumstances," Fisk said, looking at Beck casually. "Voorhees will be in touch. And Beck," he added, staring into Beck's eyes, "I do not appreciate this matter returning to my attention. See that it is concluded quietly and speedily."

"Yes sir," Beck said, and he turned and left. "This is not good," he murmured under his breath, shaking his head.

**xXx**

Harry jogged to catch up with Peter. "Anatomy's a bear, isn't it, Parker."

Peter shrugged. "That's why our study session meets on Saturdays," he said. "Memorization, up one side and down the other. If you don't mind being a walking card catalog, no sweat."

"Yeah, I hear that class would be pretty useful to anybody trying to figure out exactly what went where before Lincoln got hit by a bus."

"I tolja the cops would handle it," Peter said.

"No way the cops did that," Harry said. "No, it was some underworld vigilante or some rival mob boss's muscle. You were _right there_, man, how could you not see anything?"

"Would _you_ have stuck around after that?" Peter asked.

"Good question," Harry shrugged. "How can you know if you're not there, in the moment? I _think _I would have stuck around. But there's no telling."

"Yeah," Peter said, looking away. "Services for the cops that were killed are on Tuesday. You going?"

Harry looked at him for a moment. "Yeah," he said, "That's a good idea."

Peter smiled at him briefly. "Hey, want some lunch? My treat."  
"Yes, my good son," Harry said, "never turn down free lunch from Bait Boy."

"Great," Peter said, "a _new_ super hero name…"

**xXx**

Beck sat in the Chinese restaurant watching Voorhees. The thin man was completely bald, and he had heavy eyelids and a hooked nose. He moved with a sinuous grace that was somehow alien and repellant. His musk was peculiar. Something was very wrong with him.

At the moment, he was agilely maneuvering with chopsticks, tweaking up dumplings and swallowing them without chewing. The expression on his too-sleek features was one of ecstasy.

"I hate prison food," he said, his voice sibilant and oddly wet. He glanced at Beck. "Prison wasn't so bad after I killed three inmates, they learned quickly to leave me alone or be dead. But the food," he said, shaking his head. "The food was unbearable."

Beck idly reflected on how glad he was he had all the skills of a master hypnotist. That gave him a bit more freedom meeting Voorhees' gaze. The man's eyes were deep, too deep for a mortal man.

Beck was still waiting for him to blink, and they'd been together for almost an hour.

"Parole suits me," Voorhees said. "Who's the target."

"Peter Parker," Beck said. "Crawls walls, a freak job, you'll like him. Prefers to be called 'spider ghost' apparently, from the information we gathered from our last operative who was broken in half by this guy."

"Yeah? Who?" Voorhees said, food forgotten.

"Lincoln," Beck shrugged.

"Don't know im," Voorhees said, returning to his meal. He glanced down at the picture Beck slid to him. "A kid, huh. Okay, it's your money," he shrugged.

"You are to offer him two hundred fifty grand a year plus bonuses for a little cat burglary and whatever other odd jobs Fisk comes up with. He doesn't need to know who his employer is until he's in the fold. Try not to let him break you."

"He can't break me," Voorhees hissed. He picked up the photograph and memorized Parker's features with his cold, lidless gaze. A smile slithered across his face. "I'll need six hours in a lab, then this Peter Parker will be at your mercy."

"Your lab is ready for you," Beck said, and he handed him a slip of paper with the address. "I'll handle the bill. Be in touch."

"Your troubles are over," Voorhees said, staring into Beck's eyes. "I'm on the job."

Beck nodded curtly, paid the cashier, then hit the street and leaned back against the building breathing hard.

Must go home and try to shower the slime of that insane creep's presence off. Beck shuddered once, then headed for his car.

**xXx**

Mary Jane was sitting on her bed reading in her thick Norton Anthology when her roommate poked her head in the room. Amy tossed the cordless on the bed. "It's for you," she said, and she was gone. Mary Jane picked up the phone. "Yes?" she said.

"MJ, it's Gwen," the phone relayed. "Hey, we're working on the decoration for the dance tonight, and… this is so awkward… I was wondering if you would do me a big favor."

"Why does this have 'Gwen owes me another big one' written all over it?" Mary Jane asked, a hint of amusement in her voice, as she rolled over on her back on the bed.

"I'm worried about Peter," Gwen said.

"Gawd," Mary Jane replied.

"No, listen," Gwen said quickly. "He's been so quiet and withdrawn lately anyway, and this whole thing with that big scary hit man… I really think he needs some face time, in a room with people, maybe with some people he doesn't know. It'll be different for him. He doesn't really talk to anybody, you know."

"Like I care," Mary Jane said.

"He saved your life," Gwen scolded. "I appreciate that, if you don't."

"Ooh, calling in the big guns," Mary Jane said. She sighed. "We aren't even to the request yet."

Gwen took a deep breath to brace herself. "I want you to find Peter a date for the party tonight, then make sure he goes. Please?" she asked in her very best wheedling tone.

"Gwen," Mary Jane said, her arm flung over her eyes, "do you have _any_ idea how much I hate this idea?"

"_Pleeeese?"_

"Oh, no, come on, cut that out—"

"**PLEEEEEEEEEESE!!"**

"Alright, okay, cut it out! Fine! I'll saddle some poor soul with Peter Parker. I'll find him a date. Okay? And make sure he goes. Happy?!"

"Yes. I feel _much_ better. Thank you, MJ, you're a sweetheart," Gwen said primly.

"Oh, don't rub it in," Mary Jane grumbled, and she hung up the phone.

Great. A date for Peter.

The phone rang in her hand, and she jumped. "What," she said into it.

"No Bride of Frankenstein. A GOOD date."

"Go away!" Mary Jane yelled, and she disconnected.

She tossed the phone in the hallway, then sat lost in thought. Who on earth might be willing to go on a mercy date with a disturbed loser like Peter Parker. What kind of courage or brain damage would be needed.

Her list was short, but she retrieved the phone and got started calling.


	10. Date

Beck strolled into the warehouse and glanced up past the gantry to the upper floor. That's where the lab would be. Keeping a sharp eye out in case Voorhees was excessively cautious and given to traps, Beck jogged up the steps.

Voorhees turned to face him. "Ah, Beck. Glad you could make it. My preparations are coming right along."

"That's good," Beck said. "The custom suit Fisk commissioned for you. Is it satisfactory?"

"Oh yes," Voorhees said. With a simple shrug he removed his lab coat, and under it was a shimmering shirt of extremely fine chainmail. Beck walked over to him and inspected it more closely.

"It looks almost like cloth," he said.

"And it contracts almost as well as I do," Voorhees murmured, nodding. "Protects me from cuts, which is the main worry anyway. Add a bit of this," he said, taking an airbrush and spraying something gray on the armor, "and it's complete."

"What's that?" Beck asked.

"Silicone graphite," Voorhees replied, "my own special recipe. I don't care how adhesive his grip is," he added slyly, "I'll get loose of it."

"What about all this?" Beck asked, looking at the workbench.

"Oh those," Voorhees said. "My blades, and some venom and antidote combinations. That's always useful to start with."

"Oh?" Beck asked, raising his eyebrows.

Voorhees broadly smiled. "To demonstrate resolve and ability, I usually start by poisoning someone near to the target, to get their attention. Then I poison the target himself, and he'll do about anything to get the antidote."

"No," Beck said, "Start with Parker. If it becomes necessary to target those around him then we'll revisit that. But for now, you're good enough to take the kid by yourself, right? If he doesn't respond to persuasion."

"Of course," Voorhees hissed, his face arched with distaste. He eyed Beck narrowly for a moment. "Fisk put you in charge, so I must do as you say."

It seemed clear in that moment that neither of them was thrilled with the arrangement.

Voorhees shrugged, and picked up the phone.

"Who are you calling?" Beck asked sharply.

Voorhees looked him in the eye and grinned. "My parole officer, of course," he said. "Ahem." He punched in the number and struck a pose, listening. "Ah, good afternoon, Officer Bantry. Just calling to let you know everything's fine. Yes, and to you. Goodbye." He hung up and slipped on his mask with a giggle.

"Happy Halloween…"

**xXx**

Peter walked in the front door, tossed his backpack on the bench, and headed for his room. Harry was sitting at the table, talking on the cordless. "He just walked in, let me get him for you," he said, and he snapped his fingers and caught Peter's eye. He was grinning like a madman.

"It's for you," he said.

Peter cautiously took the phone. "Yes?"  
"Peter, it's Mary Jane. Got plans for tonight?" she asked, an edge to her voice.

"Yes," he said quickly. "Yes I do."

"Well cancel them," she said. "You're going to the Halloween dance with Tandy Bowen. Or I'll hurt you. Clear?"

"Now wait just a minute," Peter said, frowning.

"Tandy will be waiting for you to pick her up at seven at her house. Harry will give you directions. You WILL have a costume. She's going to be Buffy the Vampire Slayer, you're going to be Angel, so some plastic teeth and your normal duds will do. Put Harry back on."

"Whatever," Peter said, and he tossed the phone to Harry and walked into his room.

"Yeah," Peter heard Harry say, "smooth like gravel, babe. I'll talk to him. Yes, dear. Yes I know. And I will. Okay, bye." He hung up the phone and strolled over to lean casually against Peter's doorframe.

"I'm not going," Peter said simply.

"Now Peter," Harry said.

"The answer is no," Peter said. "I don't have to take orders from a nazi like Mary Jane who can't even be bothered to talk to me. We are _not_ having that." He sat on his bed.

"The women are worried about you," Harry shrugged. "You gotta know Gwen put her up to this."

"I don't care," Peter said. "If every woman I date is going to get all worried and fussy about me then the dead last thing I need to do is date more women."

"C'mon, Pete, be a sport," Harry grinned. "I'll be there with you. And I think the ladies are right. You spend too much time by yourself, too much time studying. You're only young once, you know. Yes, Mary Jane is a nazi, though the thought had never crossed my mind quite that way before," he said, not bothering to hide his grin. "But in this case she's right. And so is Gwen. And so am I. You, my good son, need face time with real people your age. Or you'll go postal. Look in the mirror!" he said with growing expression of amusement. "There is a troubled youth one twist from snap!"

Peter looked over his shoulder at the mirror. "You know," he said slowly, "there might be some truth somewhere in that babble."

"Most I can hope for," Harry said, standing up off the doorframe and turning. "On my best days. I gotta go get in costume."

"Right," Peter said, feeling a sudden weariness. "Where does this girl live?"

"Tandy," Harry said, quickly coming back. "Tandy. And be nice to her, she's a good woman. As women go. Lives in Rissel Lakes, it's a gated community."

"Yes, I know."

"I got a copy of the directions she handed out for their Christmas party last year. You should be able to find it no problem."

"Yes, Harry, fine."

"And don't forget to buy the woman a rose, for God's sake. And get some plastic teeth."

"One twist from snap, did you say?"

Harry just laughed.

**xXx**

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Peter said, glancing at himself in the rearview mirror of the car. He took the directions and tossed them in the back seat. "Great. I don't even know if whoever's behind that Lincoln guy is finished with me yet, and I'm out here going on a date because Mary Jane is an evil creature and has a grip on all my friends. Someday," he muttered, "we are going to have a serious disagreement."

He parked in front of her house and waited for a moment, unsure of whether he should go to the front door or wait here. He hesitated, hand on the car door handle.

He stared at the house for a moment; palatial was the word that sprang to mind. The front door to the house opened up. Then she came out the front door, her pale blonde hair up in a ponytail, dressed in leather and spandex with a bandoleer of plastic tent spikes.

He quickly got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side, opening it with a flourish. "Good evening," he said, "Step into my car."

"Good evening, Peter," she said. "How are you tonight?"

"Doing just fine," he said. "You?"

"I'm on my way to a dance," she shrugged. "So far so good." She gracefully dropped into the car, he closed her door after making sure she was all in, and he moved back to the driver's seat.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"Yes, you?" she replied.

"I have," he said. "Uh, here's a flower," he said, reaching to the back seat and retrieving the single rose.

"Why thank you," she said.

"So on to the dance?" he said.

"Sure," she nodded. He started the car and they pulled away from the curb. "So," she said, "how do you know Mary Jane?"

Peter shrugged. "She's dating my roomie."

"Ah," Tandy nodded sagely. "I never made the connection."

"So do you do a lot of mercy dates for Mary Jane?" Peter asked, trying not to sound bitter.

She laughed, a clear and amused sound. "I was going anyway, and it never hurts to have a good looking escort. Let's just have fun, okay?"

"I'm all for that," Peter grinned, and in a smooth motion he popped in his plastic teeth.

**xXx**

The front door eased open, and the thin man strolled in to the unoccupied bungalow. "Anybody home?" he asked quietly. He began to walk around the living room, hands behind his back, casual. "Unusually neat for college boys," he mused to himself, and he giggled. Then he saw the answering machine, with one message on it that had been listened to but not erased. He pushed the button.

eep "Harry, MJ. Look, make sure Peter remembers a flower and his teeth for the dance tonight, okay? Later." eep

Voorhees smiled. "The dance," he murmured. And he quickly left.


	11. Party

Peter steeled himself as they approached the student center. He could feel the music thudding out of the building into the surrounding night. He proffered his crooked elbow, and Tandy gracefully threaded her arm through his. For a moment, that was distracting. Her arm had womanshapes and she was covered in womansmell, and his senses wound up a little tighter.

_Been awhile._

Shut up, Peter thought. "Social occasions," he muttered to himself.

"Pardon?" Tandy said.

"Social occasions," Peter said to her with a smile. "I was just thinking it's been awhile."

"There's our party," Tandy said, and Peter looked to see Harry getting his horns straightened by the angelic Mary Jane, Gwen dressed in a toga with a plastic bow and a quiver of dowel rods and Flash, Hercules, smoking a cigarette outside the door to the dance.

"Mary Jane," Tandy said, gliding over to her, "You look marvelous tonight."

"Boy are you glad you showed up," Harry said under his breath with half a smile at Peter. "Well, with Parker and Bowen here, the party can start, right?"

"Oh yeah," Flash said. "I just felt the velocity of this entertainment experience zoom out of control."

"Hey Flash," Peter said, "You're sucking on the wrong end of that cigarette."

"God you look like you want to be flat," Flash said without even trying to be funny.

"Can we just go inside?" Gwen said, a little exasperated but obviously pleased that the whole party made it.

A minute later they were inside on the balcony, standing a bit awkwardly looking at each other and around the room. Too many social circles were overlapping at once; the group struggled to divide. Gwen threw a desperate look at Mary Jane, who rolled her eyes. "Dance!" she said. "Let's go dance!" Peter opened his mouth and Mary Jane glared at him. "Dance!" she said.

"Better dance," grinned Harry as he took Mary Jane's arm and hit the dance floor.

Peter looked at Tandy, who grinned mischievously at him. "Do you know how to dance?" she asked him.

"I figure it's like riding a bike," Peter said. "All the moves I mastered from the eighties should stand me in good stead. I can walk like an Egyptian, ya know."

"Then come on," she said, grabbing his arm and heading for the floor. "Show me what you've got."

It was early yet, and there weren't many on the wooden dance floor of the student center. Most of the partiers were still around the refreshment table or sitting on the couches on the balcony or in the wings. Peter glanced at the DJ, who was wearing a funky felt hat and a bathrobe and Lenin glasses.

"What are we listening to?" he bawled over the music.

Tandy shrugged. "Some techno funk hip hop," she yelled back. "Just let it do its thing."

Peter shrugged, and settled opposite her. She took a step and went from walking to dancing, stepping side to side, moving all the things that a woman should move in the directions they should move. Peter grinned in spite of himself.

_Now, can't we agree to woo this creature into a cocoon?_

"Bad me," Peter grinned softly to himself, words lost in the noise. "No biskit."

_Please?_

Just dance for her, Peter thought to himself. Because he knew he was way too white and geeky to make this look good.

So he didn't even try.

His body was moving, moving to the beat, and he felt his pulse rise and his blood quicken. His joints loosened, his smile grew and his eyes become darker. I'm so excited, he thought to himself. And I just can't hide it.

_Geez. Get us out of the eighties already._ But it was too late and Peter found his groove.

He spun once, and then he was in a sinuous motion curve that he couldn't begin to predict. It had a lot to do with copying those around him who _did _know how to dance and more to do with his spider ghost moving like it wanted something. Tandy was grinning, clearly impressed.

Peter was distantly aware of Harry doing his thing, strutting his stuff, and Mary Jane opposite him not moving a whole lot but moving everything just right. Gwen was swinging, and Flash… well, Flash was pretty sure he was a hot dancer. Peter vaguely wondered if that wild splay of swinging limbs was supposed to be the Charleston.

Then he caught himself showboating. He did the splits and twirled up, effortless. Tandy was laughing. Peter felt himself relaxing, felt himself unwinding. His senses shifted uncomfortably as he relaxed his ever vigilant control, and just this once he ignored them.

Peter was on a date. Peter was having fun.

That song wrapped up, then another interminable techno song kicked in and he showed them his moves, moves he didn't know he had, and Tandy was keeping up. They were both sweating; Flash and Gwen retired to the tables, Harry was hooting with laughter and cheering Peter on, and Mary Jane was somewhere laughing in the background when the DJ dumped the hat, tugged on a skeleton mask, and a red leather jacket covered with buckles and zippers.

"How could we not," he intoned into the microphone, "play Thriller?!"

The opening chords, and Peter found himself grinning like a madman.

Baby, I _am_ the thriller, he thought. He was too busy laughing at himself to stop.

Halfway through the song he started moonwalking, moving with an impossibly fluid grace, seeming to drift backwards across the floor.

When it was over, Harry and Mary Jane dragged him off the dance floor.

"I told you I learned how to dance in the eighties," Peter laughed.

"Dude, that was incredible," Harry gasped as they collapsed in their chairs while the other partiers on the dance floor hooted and cheered their performance. "You've been holding out on me, you madman."

"Who would have guessed nerdy Peter Parker had mad skills," Mary Jane mused, narrowing her eyes at him. He ignored her and turned to Tandy.

"You're a mean dancer yourself," he said. "I bet you took ballet."

"And gymnastics," she shrugged. "And jazz dance. And jazz piano. There was no end to the lessons." She grinned. "And still I get showed up by the wallflower." Her smile was dazzling, and Peter gripped the table.

"That wasn't a competition," he smiled at her. "Just blowing off some steam."

"Boy did you have some worked up then," Gwen said with a winning smile. "Glad you could make it tonight, Peter."

"Seig Heil," he muttered under his breath, glancing at Harry, who desperately tried not to let his composure dissolve into laughter. Naturally, he failed.

**xXx**

Voorhees leaned against a pillar, halfway down the balcony, watching the happy group. He flicked his lighter and touched it to his cigarette. He inhaled, then hissed the smoke out, watching Parker through the shifting haze, eyes narrowed.

"Excuse me, sir," said a chubby college student walking up to Voorhees. "No smoking in the student center."

"Leave if you want to keep both your eyes," Voorhees said absently. The student blinked, unsure of what to do next.

Voorhees slid a knife out of his jacket sleeve with an effortless twitch. "Now, tubs."

The student turned and blundered through the crowd.

Peter hesitated, sniffed, and his eyes started roving the crowd.

That's right, Voorhees nodded to himself. See me.

Peter saw him.

They recognized something about each other. Something unnatural.

Voorhees was smiling as Peter excused himself.

**xXx**

"Be right back," Peter said. He moved away from the table, and Gwen put her head down. Mary Jane scowled, and looked at Harry. He shrugged elaborately and studied his drink, no longer laughing.

"Looks like I have to do all things Parker around here," she gritted out. "He's not leaving this party, not tonight." She threw her napkin down on the table and stood, walking stiffly as she followed Peter into the crowd.

Tandy cleared her throat. "Anyone else want a drink?"


	12. Unmasked

"You know why I'm here and you know what I'm going to say," Voorhees said quietly, smiling under his half-mask.

"Who are you?" Peter demanded.

"That's not important," Voorhees said with a dismissive wave. "Here's my number," he added, handing Peter a simple business card with a number scrawled on it with a cheap pen. "What is important is that you are going to work for my employer for two hundred and fifty grand a year plus bonuses for cat burglary and assorted other tasks."

"I'm not that cheap," Peter shot back, pocketing the card. "You can't afford me. Your boss can't afford me. My price is a real life. You don't have that to give me. Get lost. Tell your boss the answer is no. Still. And it will remain no. So stop sending thugs who smoke in public buildings."

"I'm afraid that's the only kind he has," Voorhees grinned. "Oh!" he said in mock dismay. "Seems someone else wants to cut in on our little dance. Want me to off her?"

"Don't even joke," Peter said, his eyes hard.

He turned to make eye contact with Mary Jane. Her halo was off, and she meant business. Her arms were folded across her chest and she was positively rigid with fury that blazed from her green eyes.

Too quick—

Peter barely registered that the masked man was moving before he felt a sting in his chest, a quick pressure. He looked down to see his attacker pulling back an empty ampoule.

"Twenty four hours," hissed the masked man, "absolute tops, and you die. No matter _what_ you are. Think about my offer. Call me." He turned and moved through the crowded people as though they were not there.

Peter felt flushed as the slow burn began. Every sense raged.

"What," Mary Jane said. "Drugs? You a dealer? What's your excuse?"

Peter fought his rage tooth and nail. "Drop it, MJ," he said as lightly as he could. "This is not the time. And no, I don't do drugs." He turned to follow the masked man.

Mary Jane grabbed his arm.

"For once in your miserable life," she half shouted at him over the music, "tell the truth! Enough of this macho mysterious act!"

Eye contact.

She flinched.

His face twisted into a snarl. "All right," he snapped. "All right then. Truth." He gripped her wrist and headed for the exit at uncomfortable speed, his stride long enough to tug her nearly off her feet. She stumbled as fast as she could to keep up as he banged through the exit door to the loading dock of the student center.

"Picked the wrong day," he muttered under his breath. "Pushed the wrong buttons." Mary Jane panted with fear and exertion as Peter muttered to himself. "It's time _someone _knew. She asked for it." He reached the end of the dock.

"Oh god," she gasped. "Are you a hit man?"

He barked something like a laugh. "Hold this," he said, tossing her his jacket. She gasped as she caught the jacket. He kicked off his shoes and yanked off his socks with startling speed. Then she let out a scream as she whipped up off her feet into the air.

Some part of her mind registered the feel of his wiry hand on the small of her back as she rushed up through the air pushing multiple g's with their speed. They landed on the flat roof of the student center and he pushed her with what looked like a gentle motion. She reeled back, spinning, desperate to keep her footing. As she managed to stand up, half sobbing, Peter was in her face.

"I'm different," he snapped. "I have abilities. And because of that I'm a target, from time to time, and I live in mortal terror of the day when I get someone near and dear to me _killed_. Like _tonight._ The man I was talking to could have killed you just as easily as he could have taken another breath and you're barking at me like some little yippy dog. _Listen to me_. Open your eyes."

She desperately tried to slow her breathing as she staggered back, deep fear gripping her as she saw what was in his eyes, what he kept hidden; she confronted something not wholly human as he breathed her air and pushed her back.

Then in a heartbeat's space he turned his back to her; but he looked subtly different without his jacket, hyped as he was. There was an unnatural tension and liquid grace in his body; his shoulders, his arms were oddly angled. He was strength. He was speed. She was afraid. She tried to get control of her breath.

"Mary Jane," he said, something helpless in his voice, "you could have figured this out if you wanted to. Last New Years, I was supposed to look after your cat and didn't? It's because I was torn down by a secret agent, beaten within an inch of my life. And when the cops grabbed us after our first real date? A spy hid a stolen industrial secret in my camera bag. Yeah, Lincoln was after me and you and Harry almost got killed in the crossfire. So." He sucked in his breath and let it out slowly. "Stop judging me by your stupid little social code. The stakes are just too high for me to worry about whether or not I'm properly dressed for the party. You can't possibly understand that, so I don't hold it against you. But I swear if you push me one step further then there's going to be a reckoning." He still stood with his back to her.

Her breath still eluded her. "You really _can_ fly," she whispered. "You are your own magic carpet."

"Well, I can't fly, not exactly," he said, looking up at the sky.

"And you weren't kidding, not exactly," Mary Jane breathed. "Does Gwen know about this?"

"You tell me," Peter said, his voice bitter.

"Hell no," Mary Jane managed, getting control over her breathing. "Wow. I mean," she said with a helpless gesture, "wow. What all _can_ you do?"

He slowly turned to face her, and his eyes were more like those of the Peter she knew. "I'm strong," he said simply, "and fast and tough. I can stick to things. I notice things. I argue with myself. I'm a snappy dancer." He shrugged, and murmured to himself, "I've come this far." He tugged up his sleeves, and Mary Jane absently realized she had never seen him in a short sleeved shirt before.

She saw long scars along his forearms, and looked closer.

Not scars.

The ridges of flesh were puckered over each other, and as she looked closer she saw something pale and gray. "What the hell?" she whispered.

Peter pointed his arm at the chimney and flexed slightly; a stream of sticky goo whizzed out incredibly fast and smacked on. He tugged the strand, holding it taut. He shrugged. "Web."

"Cool," she breathed, her eyes lighting up. "Can I touch it?"

"Uh," he said uncomfortably as she stepped closer. She took his other wrist in both hands. To his hot flesh her hands felt cool. He let her turn his wrist over, slowly, noticed she kept her eyes pointed down, at his wrist, away from his gaze. She reached out and gingerly touched his spinnerets.

"Okay enough," he said, jerking his arm out of her grip and shoving his sleeves back down. "Enough. Ugh. I've never let anyone touch… that… before," he said, looking out over the campus lights. "I hate this."

"What?" Mary Jane said. "You hate what?"

"Being vulnerable like this," he said, crossing his arms tightly, pushing his forearms into his chest. "I've kept this secret for years. Nobody was ever supposed to know."

"I'll keep your secret for you," Mary Jane said solemnly. "I swear it."

Peter shut his eyes and let out a sigh as he lowered his head. "I can't believe I just told Mary Jane," he muttered.

"About time you told somebody, if you ask me," she said dryly. Then she cocked her head to the side, curious. "Don't you get a kick out of it, though? The power?" He glanced at her, and half smiled.

Then he took a step towards her and casually tossed her off the roof as though she were weightless. Too shocked to scream, she hurled off the edge of the roof, tumbling in space. She saw the ground rush up—

Peter dove after her, caught her, fired web with a peculiar popping sizzle, and swung them into an alley where he slapped against the wall taking all the impact himself.

"Sure," he whispered into her hair as she clung to him, her heart hammering, her eyes unable to blink. "Sure I get a kick out of it. Just like you did. It's a rush with a price. As much as I wish this was a game, and in spite of my weaker moments, this power is not a toy."

She clung to him, and she felt him tremble. She felt his body, hard and wiry and tough, and she wondered how she could possibly have missed it before.

Realized why he wore baggy clothes and kept his distance.

Realized that, had things gone differently, she might have found out about his talents in another way.

Then Peter dropped to the alley and leaned her up against the wall. "Make my apologies to Tandy and take her home, will you? Harry can take my car home. I think I need some time."

"Sure thing," she managed airily, waving her hand towards him. "I'll be able to walk in just a minute here."

"Take your time," Peter said grimly. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have lost my temper. I wish I could take this back."

She laughed a bit faster and higher than she wanted to. "Parker," she said, "you never cease to amaze me. I'll clean up inside. Go vent your angst." For a long moment she just looked at him. She shook her head. "Wow."

With a bound he left the alley. She turned and weaved her way back to the student center. She stooped to collect his shoes and socks, then she passed through the door into the thudding and relentless music.

On the roof of the student center, Voorhees fired up a cigarette, took a drag, and smiled to himself. Sweet thing… But first, business. He hopped off the roof and vanished into the night.


	13. Background Check

"Time to cop a Rodin," Peter muttered under his breath. He bounded up backwards and lightly clung to the side of the building, looking out over the park. "Some nutcase wants me to steal stuff for him. Will pay me a doctor's salary first year, no study required, no student loans. Plus bonuses." Peter sat motionless, thoughtful, for a moment.

Then he bowed his head. "And it's guaranteed that inside of a month I'd be asked to do something I wouldn't do, and things would get awkward." He sighed. "Better cut out now before I learn too much or sign anything. And now that we've worked that out," he said, raising his head to look over the park, "Maybe it's time we figured out a way to dissuade our creepy friend from letting me die of poison."

"I wonder," he mused as he fired out a webline and was tugged off the building. "All these sneaky underhanded tactics. Bet it's Amway."

He dropped by a public pay phone, and he picked up the phone and dialed the operator. He looked ruefully at his deeply soiled clothes from his swing over town, he wiggled his bare toes. "Collect call… Here's the number. Doug Ramsey. Tell him it's Peter Parker."

Thirty seconds later, Peter heard Doug's voice. "What's going on?" Doug asked, a bit concerned.

"I need your help, Doug," Peter said. "These guys are after me, but I got a phone number for one of them. I want to know who they are."

"Give me the number," Doug said. Peter obliged. "Let me call you back," Doug said. "What's the number of your booth?" Peter passed it on, and hung up. The phone rang a moment later, and Peter snagged it off the hook.

"That was quick," he said.

"Har har," Doug muttered. "Here we go. My algorithms are scouring places they shouldn't be. This won't take long. How are your pictures coming?"

"I got a couple rolls," Peter shrugged. "I haven't gotten them developed yet. Something just keeps coming up, you know? I'll have to get back to you."

"Found the number," Doug said. "Hm. It's an internal use Sprint voice mail box that isn't currently listed as active. Huh." There was quiet for a moment. "Whoever has it is being backed by someone with considerable cleverness and resources."

"Thanks, Doug," Peter said. "I'll get you a better number."

"Next time?" Doug said. "Don't call me collect from a pay phone."

"You got it," Peter said with a nod. "Thanks again." He hung up and looked around, then blended back with the shadows. "Home again home again, jiggity jig."

A few minutes later he was looking at his house from the roof of the first house on the block. He slowly scanned the surrounding houses.

"If I was keeping an eye on me, where would I hide?" he murmured under his breath. His senses relaxed and unwound into the night, calculations running madly in the back of his mind, choosing and picking. "We have a winner," Peter said to himself with a grin, looking at the two story house at the other end of the block with a loft window facing the right direction to see the bungalow and its entrances and exits. He fired out a webline and he was away, a shadow in the dark, circling to approach the possible watch station.

Peter let his senses go at full bore, looking for traps or sensors as he silently prowled in crouched spider position along the roof. He reached the gable and peered down, then clambered noiselessly down to bunch himself together upside down over the window. Slowly, he peeked.

A blanket over the window. But down on one side, a video camera. Yep. This was a watch station. Peter scurried around right side up then relaxed in place, clinging to the wall in a somewhat toad-like position, systematically relaxing every muscle he didn't need to use until he was calm and at peace, hanging on the wall.

"Not a bad way to sleep," he mused to himself. He wondered if he would fall off the wall in his sleep or if, like birds, his grip would tighten as he drifted off.

A heavy door opened and closed, and boots thudded close to the window. Peter caught a whiff of hot grease; McDonalds. Crunch of french fries being chewed, rustle of paper. He realized he was hungry.

Then he heard a cell phone snap open. He heard the almost inaudible whine of rewinding expensive tape gear. What, no digital? Then amidst the munching of fries, a number was dialed.

Peter memorized the tones.

"Yeah, this is station two calling in. Looks like he's still out. The IR isn't picking up anybody in his room, and hasn't for the last couple hours. Yeah, I'll let you know as soon as he shows up. I know my job. Right. Okay, bye." He hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair. Peter heard the swirl of ice and liquid in a papery cup, the hollow screech of a straw's height being adjusted in a plastic lid.

"Well," Peter murmured, "don't let me interrupt your supper." He slithered back to the roof and sprang, landing half the block down and out of sight of the observation station. In a few minutes he crept to his window, glanced around furtively for the sake of the video, and then clambered inside.

It took mere seconds to strip and then he was in the shower and it felt wonderful washing off the grime of the city's mid-canopy smog. Ten minutes later he sat on his bed and looked at the filmy, slightly sticky phone.

"Too many calls before I'm awake," he said ruefully, looking at the ripped up spot on the wall behind the phone, where the phone tended to get slammed by his webline before he woke up. "Okay, spider senses," he said to himself, "cross reference this tonal configuration." He grinned to himself.

His spider senses cross referenced the tonal configuration. He scribbled down the new number and called Doug.

"Ramsey," came a distracted voice on the other end.

"Peter here. Try this number," Peter said, rattling it off.

"Right," Doug said. "How'd you get this one?"

"I was _sneaky_," Peter grinned.

"Fair enough," Doug said with an almost audible shrug.

Peter just sat and waited.

A few minutes later, Doug abruptly said, "Bingo. Raymond Snee."

"Could you check him out for me?" Peter asked.

"You bet. You owe me lunch already, and supper."

"I'm good for it," Peter said with half a smile, "long as you keep paying me."

"Get some sleep. And quit calling me," Doug said.

Peter grinned as he hung up the phone. Then he sighed. Bedtime. "I mean it," he said sternly to himself under his breath. You always do, he thought. "Great," Peter muttered. "It's going to be one of _those_ nights." He stood and stretched, then shut off the light.

Seconds later he heard the crunch of gravel as a car drove up and parked. He was instinctively alert. A few seconds later another car pulled up. He left his door open a crack and waited in the shadows.

A key hit the lock, and Harry stepped in and snapped on the light. "Pad sweet pad," he muttered. "Come on in, MJ. I'll get you something to drink."

"Juice is good," she said, strolling in and glancing around. "Peter must not be back yet." She walked over to his room and opened the door, glancing around in the dark and not looking up at the ceiling where he clung lightly, back flat on the plaster.

"Must not be," Harry said. "He could be anywhere. Maybe he's at his old lady's place. I'm fed up with him," Harry said with some heat. Mary Jane pulled the door to, and walked over to the table. Harry sat down and looked her in the eye. Peter dropped to the floor noiselessly and watched through the crack in the door.

"Every time, MJ," Harry said, thumping the table with his finger, "every time we go out on a limb, out of our way, whatever to take him to a social occasion for his own good he ruins it for everybody. I'm tired of wasting time and money trying to rehabilitate Parker's hopeless social life."

Peter slowly closed his eyes.

"What possible reason could he have?" Mary Jane asked quietly, almost to herself.

"None. There is no reason. He's just a jerk. And tonight he flaked out on us again. That's it, MJ. I'm through dragging him to parties. And what was up with the moonwalking?"

"He's definitely a weirdo," Mary Jane said. "I gotta get home."

"Hey, it's early yet, and Parker isn't back," Harry said, his tone changing. "Have you thought any more about moving in with me? After tonight I'm more than ready to find a reason to dump Peter and get a real roommate."

"Answer is no, Harry," Mary Jane said. She kissed him on the forehead. "Night." She walked out the door, and a minute later her car started.

"Damn," Harry said softly to himself.

Peter stood stock still in his room.

Okay.

That hurt a little, but okay.

You could tell him you snuck in last night as usual, he thought.

"No," he whispered to himself. "He'd wonder if I heard him." Moving slowly as though exhausted, Peter dressed himself in clean clothes and slid out the window. He circled around to the front of the house, took a deep breath, held it, let it out, and strolled up to the front door. He opened it.

"Hey Harry," he said quietly as he stepped in.

"Where'd you go?" Harry said. "Why did you ditch the party? You looked like you were having fun."

"I went to talk to somebody," Peter shrugged. "Mary Jane descended like the Wrath of God. We went out back and had a chat, and I thought it would be better to just go, instead of dragging that little tiff back in for everybody to feel all awkward about."

"I guess she did kind of chase you off," Harry conceded with a shrug. "Not a bruise on you. I've never seen her go from her 'ready to kill' mode to docile that fast. Maybe you should give me a few pointers."

Peter half-smiled as he thought of his methods. "Well, I just told her I was meant to be a hermit, and while I appreciated the date and all, and it's not that I'm gay or anything, I just am not ready for a woman, to treat her right. I told her I was a heel and not worth her efforts. I didn't give her anything to fight with, so she kind of rolled over me and was done. And I limped off into the night," he grinned.

"Huh," Harry said.

"Well," Peter said suddenly, "I'm beat. I'm going to get some sleep. Thanks for a great evening," didn't hurt _much_ to say "and I'll see you in the morning."

"Night, Peter," Harry said, looking down into his drink. Peter went in his room and shut the door.

"I can't believe," Peter said softly to himself, "I told Mary Jane…"


	14. Poisoned

**Sunday, November 3**

Peter lay on his back, not yet asleep, his body slowly quieting down. His fingers were laced behind his head. He stared at the ceiling. "I can't believe I told Mary Jane," he muttered, and he winced as the burn in his chest sparked fresh pain. "I can't believe I let that yokel poison me. Damn. _That,_" he mused, "was a bad day."

Then his thoughts ran to the one who was after him; _who was behind it all? The man behind the curtain?_

"Yeah, and when am I going to get a full night of sleep?"

_When you're dead, shut up, I'm thinking here_. Peter sighed.

He jumped out of bed as the phone rang. He glanced at the clock. Two thirty in the morning. He picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Is this Peter Parker?" said a woman's voice on the other line.

"Speaking. What can I do for you?"

"Your name was on your aunt's emergency contact information" Peter went cold "and she's just been admitted to the emergency room."

Peter doublechecked the hospital name. "I'll be right there," he said, his lips numb. He hung up the phone and waited for his brain to reboot.

It might be that she had an attack of some sort, some natural disaster. His eyes narrowed. More likely… Okay. What to do? A moment of focus now would save a lot of running around later.

He hopped into his clothes, and then he scooped up his camera bag. Reluctantly, he picked up the phone. Punched in a number.

"ello?" came a voice on the other end.

"Mary Jane?" Peter said quietly.

"wha?"

"Aunt May's in the hospital, Saint Mary's. They just admitted her to the ER."

There was a moment of silence on the other end. "Oh God, Peter, are you okay?"

"I'm headed over there. I… I wanted to let someone else know."

"I'll meet you there," Mary Jane said, and she hung up before he could protest. He half smiled to himself, then hefted his camera bag and moved swiftly through the darkened rooms, out the door, dropped into his cold car.

Twenty minutes later he was at the hospital. Thirty minutes later, he was at Aunt May's side.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed and picked up her withered, chill hand. She looked so thin and frail in the harsh lights that for a moment he stared at her heart rate monitor to be sure she was alive.

"Mister Parker?" said the tall man that stepped through the plastic curtain around the bed. "I'm Doctor Wells. Looks like your aunt suffered a mild heart attack. She called 911 right before she collapsed, and the phone was off the hook when the EMTs arrived." He shrugged. "She will most likely recover, but she has been weakened. She has insurance," he said, and he hesitated, "but even so this is going to get expensive."

Peter stared at him as though he spoke a foreign language. "Do what you need to do," Peter said. "I have money. Just make sure Aunt May gets better, okay?"

"Of course," the doctor said. "Of course." Peter turned from him to look down at Aunt May. The doctor checked his clipboard and stepped out.

"Everything is going to be fine, Aunt May," Peter whispered to her as he held her hand. "Don't you worry about a thing. I'll take care of this." He squeezed her hand once, then stepped out of the curtain and headed for the waiting room.

He reached the waiting room and saw Mary Jane standing to one side. She rushed over to him and clasped him in a fierce hug, then stepped back, gripping his arms. "Is she okay?"

"She had a heart attack," Peter said, his voice small. He winced as a sudden pain flared in his chest then subsided. "As awful as this sounds… I hope it was natural. Here, take my camera. You know how it works?"

"Peter Parker, I know how a camera works," she said dryly. "Why? You doing a fashion shoot in the ER waiting room?" she glanced wryly down at herself in her grubby jeans and sweat shirt, her hair untouched.

"Not at all," he said grimly. "This is what I want you to do."

**xXx**

Peter trudged out of the emergency room into the frosty night air, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his head down. He walked along the sidewalk, waiting for it, and then he sensed the man who stood in his path.

"Good evening, Parker," the bald man said in his sibilant voice. He took a quick drag on his cigarette. "Tough break tonight, huh."

Peter stared at him.

"It's too bad," the bald man said, shaking his head. "Too bad your auntie had an accident. I bet right about now you could use some money to take care of it, couldn't you." He smiled. He knew he had Peter dead to rights.

Then he heard the clicking whir of a shutter, snapping shot after shot. Mary Jane stepped out of the shadows from behind Peter, camera lined up on the bald man and taking picture after picture.

His eyes widened and he took a step backwards, but he was too slow. Peter snatched his coat and yanked him close, staring him in the eye. "You shouldn't have started this," he said in a hoarse whisper. "You shouldn't have touched my people. Now you're going to pay. I'm going to find out who you are and I'm going to punish you. _If May Parker doesn't recover_, or if anyone else gets suddenly sick, _you_ are going to have an accident. It's going to look like you were doing the backstroke in a combine. They won't find all the pieces. Are we clear?"

The bald man just stared back at him.

"Take _that_ back to your boss," Peter hissed, and he threw the other man back.

The bald man stared at him coldly for a moment. "Don't forget about the venom," he said softly.

"We'll see about _that _too," Peter said. "Don't suppose you have any cure on you."

"Of course not," the man replied.

"Maybe you better next time we meet," Peter said in a low voice. "It might save your life." He narrowed his eyes and spat on the bald man, then pushed him hard. The thin man desperately hopped and twirled, and miraculously managed not to fall down and skid along the sidewalk. Peter watched him stalk away.

"Creepy," Mary Jane said softly.

"Yes," Peter agreed, taking the camera from her. "Thanks for your help. Sorry to drag you into this."

"You keep saying that," she said. "Tell you what. You stop saying that every time we get together and I'll pretend you do. How's that?"

"I owe you one," he said.

"You owe me _dinner_," she corrected.

"Okay, dinner then," Peter said. "I gotta go do something with these shots."

"I'll see you around," Mary Jane said. "I'm gonna go check on Aunt May."

Peter looked at her for a long moment. "She'd like that," he said. Then he turned and rapidly strode towards his parked car.

Mary Jane watched him go, a curious kind of smile on her face, then she turned and walked into the emergency room.

Peter slung down into his chill car and sat for a moment. Something not right. He got up out of the car and headed back.

Just in time to see the bald man slip through the doors into the waiting room.

"Slow learner," Peter growled. He set his jaw and ghosted after the bald man.


	15. Smackdown

Mary Jane patted Aunt May's leathery hand, and smiled down at her. "Get well soon," she said softly. Then she turned and walked out, headed for the waiting room.

She made it through the doors into the waiting room when she saw the bald man in the trench coat smiling at her in a way she felt slithering down her back. She hesitated. Oh dear. Then she breezed down the hallway deeper into the hospital as though she knew where she was going. She glanced over her shoulder. With fluid grace he followed, his slim form seeming to take up the entire doublewide hallway.

"You shouldn't have gotten involved, girl," he hissed. "You're out of your depth. But I'm glad you did," he added, as he licked his lips, his eyes traveling up and down her form. "Mary Jane," he said suddenly.

She stopped and glanced back—

caught his eye—

"Stop," he said softly, and she froze. He strolled up to her, leaned close without breaking eye contact; he sniffed her. "I was in prison for a long time," he whispered to her, his breath chilly. "I haven't had a chance to properly celebrate… my freedom." He touched her shoulder, and she quivered with revulsion.

If she were not lost in those depthless reptilian eyes, she would have screamed. Her whole world had shrunk to his eye…

"Can't say I didn't warn you," came a tightly furious voice behind him. The bald man turned just in time to catch an elbow in the eye socket. The ringing impact spun him around, but he recovered almost instantly. Mary Jane dove to the side, leaving them plenty of room.

The man darted at Peter with a rapid strike; Peter snagged his wrist and pounded a heavy blow to his gut. Organs spread then snapped back into place; this man, was he even human? Peter quickly ducked as the man spat at him. Something wet sizzled over his head, slapped into the floor and sent up wisps of smoke as it ate into the floor.

Peter kicked at him, but the man was unnaturally quick. He deflected the kick and pounded a quick blow into Peter's groin, knocking him down. The man spun and dove into the stairwell. Peter was on his feet in a flash and after him, while Mary Jane lay curled up on the floor struggling to breathe.

They sprang up the steps, both of them disturbingly agile and strong, taking whole flights in a bound. Peter leaped over one railing and sent his feet sailing up across the next tier, crushing his foe into the wall. The bald man giggled as he spun free. Peter snatched his shirt and whipped his head into the wall; it bounced off, leaving a wet spot, and the man didn't stop giggling; his skull had deformed for a moment, but now he seemed fine. Peter felt revulsion crawl across him from even touching this man.

He effortlessly slid out of Peter's grip.

Peter gasped, and scrabbled for him, full adhesion on. He tore off the jacket, but some shimmering tight shirt was beneath it. He snatched at that and his hands came away slick, the bald man dashed up another flight.

"No!" shouted Peter. He jumped after him—

His head rang with the impact as the wiry man turned and smashed a kick into his forehead, and he was shoved into it by the force of his leap. He staggered in the air and crashed down to the steps, and his assailant was on him. Peter shoved at him, but the man maneuvered around and wrapped him with an arm, then his other arm. From behind, the bald man began to contract his arms.

Peter let out a hoarse shout as his ribs buckled. Something—the bald man's arms lost their joints! He felt the arm bones slither down, disconnecting into vertebrae. He realized he was effectively in the crushing grip of a snake. Straining, he hurled his strength against the bonds.

The bald man giggled and flexed his "arms" tighter. Peter felt his air leave him in a rush. He felt his bones strain—

In that moment, things slid into clarity for him. He lay on the grimy concrete floor of a landing in the stairwell, he felt the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, smelled human disease buried in antiseptic leaking from every floor. He realized that this man was crushing the life out of him. And from deep inside a fury rose.

He let it.

He threw his last strength into the constricting grip once more, enough to turn slightly. Then he raised his leg and crushed a kick down at an awkward angle. He still managed to catch the bald man's knee. He savagely kicked again. Again.

The bonds loosed some. The giggling stopped.

Peter slung his head sideways, crushing the side of his forehead into his attacker's teeth. Again. He felt his forehead bleeding from where the teeth cut it. He managed to squirm once more to face his attacker.

For a moment they locked eyes.

In Peter's eyes, there was no doubt.

In the bald man's stare, there was fear.

Peter snapped his head forward again, catching the snake man right between the eyes. The bald man's nose crumpled then sprang back. Peter threw his strength against the arms again, and this time he managed to squirm loose. He leaped to his feet.

The snake man rolled over backwards and popped up, snarling, a thin trickle of blood coming from his unbroken nose.

Peter ached, but he didn't feel the pain. "That all you got?" he gasped, his lungs straining and desperate.

This time the thin man leaped _down_ the stairs. He got down a flight and a half before Peter cleared the railing and smashed down on him from above. They tumbled to the ground in a flail of limbs, and Peter introduced the bald man to each and every step on the way down. Peter grasped at his ankle, got a good grip, squeezed. The bones flexed in his grip, and the bald man effortlessly whipped free.

"That's _real _annoying," Peter gritted out, and he sprang after him.

The bald man let loose a hissing snarl, tugged something from his belt. Peter's senses went wild, catching a whiff of chemical fire, and he sprang back. Flame gusted up the stairwell, and he whirled around the corner unsinged.

When he peeked again a moment later, Voorhees was gone.

"Didn't hear the fire door go," Peter muttered to himself. He heard a wrench of concrete on metal, and a tinkle of metal fragments. He whirled down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairwell was a locked fire door and a grate that had been torn up off the floor. Peter knelt by it.

The grate was a foot square.

"No way," he said to himself, touching the opening. "There is no way he got through this."

Then he stood, and slowly backed away.

"Mary Jane," he breathed.

He was running up the stairwell a second later.

As he cleared the stairwell and jogged back towards the emergency room, he sniffed the pale dust on his hands. Silicon graphite, his senses informed him.

"That's not sold in hardware stores," he muttered, trying to wipe the frictionless greasy dust from his hands. He reached the waiting room and spotted Mary Jane standing by the wall, her eyes wide and staring.

"MJ!" he said quickly, jogging to her. Her eyes touched on him and her face lit up. She pulled him into another fierce hug.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you," she said, her voice muffled in his shirt.

"Yeah," Peter said, gently touching his bleeding forehead. "Let's get out of here. There's a Perkins down the street."

**xXx**

They sat together quietly in the corner finishing off pancakes and sausage, not saying much. Peter drank down the last of the nasty coffee.

"I've never felt that… vulnerable," Mary Jane said softly. "When he looked into my eyes." She shook her head, then shivered violently. "If you hadn't showed up to stop him, there's nothing I could have done to a man like that to stop him."

Peter looked down at his empty plate and didn't say anything at all.

Mary Jane sighed. "But you did show up," she said. "Did he get away?"

"Through the floor," Peter said softly. "This is the price of the power. Aunt May is in the hospital and you're being stalked by this loon. Because of me."

She stood up and squeezed his arm. "You'll just have to put him away, then, won't you." There was something hard beneath her light tone. A certainty. "Keep me posted."

"I will," Peter said. "Hey, be sure you're with other people today, stay safe, maybe avoid your usual haunts. I'll see what I can do. If possible, I want to get this whacko taken care of before he has time to do any more damage. Okay?"

She nodded. "Okay." She smiled at him briefly. "Go get 'im, tiger." Then she turned and swayed out of the restaurant.

"Oh, Harry," Peter said softly to himself, "right now I wish I was you." Because he longed to go with her.

Then he got up and headed to the college darkroom.


	16. Sting

Peter rapped smartly on Doug's apartment door. And again. Within, he sensed nothing stirring. He sighed and went to the end of the hall. He cranked the window open and kicked off his shoes, propping his briefcase against the wall beside them. In a moment he was on the outside of the building. A burst of properly applied strength and he opened Doug's window in his living room. Peter took a moment to glance over his shoulder at the rising sun. He smiled to himself. Sunday morning.

He dropped lightly inside the immaculate apartment, then he padded over to the front door and unlocked it. He retrieved his shoes and his briefcase and he stepped back inside. He closed the window. Then he glanced around. A moment later he started up the coffee maker and was rooting around in the fridge.

A few minutes later a wary and tousled young man cautiously worked his way into the living room gripping a Louisville Slugger. Peter grinned at him.

"Good morning, Doug," he said. "Sorry to wake you. I thought I'd make some coffee."

"What the hell do you want?" Doug asked in a raspy voice. "It's dawn, on a Sunday. Go home. Sleep."

"Bah," Peter said. "Those pictures. That's Raymond Snee. If that's his real name." The bald man sneered into the camera lens, captured in a moment of surprise.

Doug looked down at the enlargements spread on his counter. "Okay," he said.

"Have some coffee," Peter said. He handed him a big mug. "How do you take it?"

"Black, leave it alone," Doug mumbled, picking up one of the pictures. "Still damp," he said, looking at Peter.

"Those pictures were just taken this morning, at the hospital," Peter said, looking Doug right in the eye, "where my Aunt May is."

"Ah," Doug said. "I see. So we gotta nail this bastard before he can finish the job."

"Just so," Peter said, leaning back against the counter.

"Did you find out anything else?" Doug asked.

"He's good with poisons," Peter said thoughtfully, "and he was just released from prison." His face darkened. "And he tried to rape one of my friends. After he gave Aunt May a mild heart attack."

"Yikes," Doug said absently. "One sick puppy."

"This is really important to me," Peter said.

"You owe me dinner," Doug shrugged as he booted his computers up.

"Dinner, you got it, name the place."

"Tell you what, this'll go faster if you do breakfast too."

"Fair enough," Peter said, and he opened the fridge and pulled out bread and eggs. "So how come everybody I do stuff for asks me for payment in food?"

"You know anybody who likes to cook?" Doug said, half smiling. "Besides, it's something we're reasonably sure of getting out of you."

"Down boy! Ouch!" Peter said, restraining a smile. Doug returned to the business at hand.

"See, prison," Doug said. "That's the missing link. Now I can find out who was let out for good behavior yesterday or the day before, sometime after you broke Lincoln."

"You know about Lincoln?" Peter asked.

Doug just smiled to himself and typed like a dervish.

Peter turned his attention to breakfast, and in fifteen minutes he brought a plate of French toast and scrambled eggs over to Doug. "Any luck?"

"I think so," Doug said. "Here. I gotta think this is your man. Klaus Voorhees." Doug pulled up a mug shot.

"Oh yeah," Peter said. "That's him alright. What do you have on him?"

"He was released on parole yesterday morning for good behavior. He's in jail for poisoning five people with cobra poison, and for being muscle in a marketing scam run by some bigger fish. Looks like he's a brilliant biochemist, renowned herpetologist too. He had it all then he was convicted of killing his partner, ostensibly to claim full credit for the anti-toxin they had developed jointly." Doug read quietly for a moment. "This guy looks seriously unstable."

"Anything in there about him not being fully human? Was he a front page story in the Weekly World News or something?"

"He wasn't in the Planetary either, thanks for asking," Doug said dryly. "Don't see any reference to unnatural talents."

"Yeah, well put one in," Peter grumbled. Doug smiled absently.

"There's volumes missing," Doug said. "I might be able to find out some more, but I can't be sure. Want me to do some digging?"

"You've done enough," Peter said, and then he gasped and clutched his chest, bending over double.

"Are you going to make it?" Doug asked, worry in his voice.

Peter nodded vigorously, still bent over. "Poisoned me," he gasped out. "I have until eight tonight."

"That's just great," Doug said. "Do you want me to call the Doctor?"

"No," Peter said, shaking his head as he slowly sat up. "I don't want to be any deeper in his debt than I have to be. I can't hide behind him forever. I got this. And Doug. I won't forget this. It means a lot to me that you're willing to help."

"So if you won't involve the Doctor, how come it's okay to drag me into this?" Doug asked.

"I know you won't get all heroic on me," Peter said with a smile. "And I'm desperate. Will you check one more thing for me?"

"Sure," Doug said, shrugging.

"Who is Voorhees's parole officer?"

**xXx**

Peter stood at the payphone and looked down at the number Voorhees had given him. He punched it in. Cleared his throat.

"Leave me a message," Voorhees murmured on the other end. Beep.

"This is Peter," he said, putting a quaver in his voice. "I… I've had a rough night. Time to think about… you know. And… and I can't beat you… so bring the antidote. I'm ready to talk about your offer again. Meet me in Central Park, at the gazebo, in an hour and a half." He looked at his watch. "At eleven thirty." He hung up rapidly and smiled to himself.

He picked up the phone again, slotted in more change, punched in a number. "Yes," he said, "may I speak to Officer Bantry? He's out. Voicemail will be fine." Peter smiled to himself. Cleared his throat. "Meet me in Central Park at the gazebo at eleven forty. Voorhees is going to try something and he'll need you to cover for him. I'm a friend." Peter was grinning as he hung up the phone.

He dumped more coins into the phone and placed another call. "Yes," he said. "Detective Brilhart please…" He cleared his throat. "Yes, sir, this is Peter Parker. I really need to meet with you. Immediately, if possible. It is? Good. I need your help with something…"

**xXx**

Peter sat on the steps of the gazebo. He adjusted his jacket and tweaked his collar, then put a paper bag on the ground by the steps, innocuous and out of sight. He cleared his throat. Then the poison smeared pain through his chest and he fought just to get a breath of air.

He was hunched over when he became aware of Voorhees standing looking at him. "I'm glad you finally saw reason," Voorhees sneered softly, fury sparking in his eyes. He had traces of bruising around one of his eyes. Otherwise, he looked fine.

"Poison makes it tough to concentrate," Peter said, half glad of the burst of agony that made his acting that much more convincing. "Tell me the terms again."

"Two hundred and fifty thousand a year, plus bonuses and benefits, for doing cat burglary." Voorhees inspected his fingernails.

"So I won't have to kill anybody?" Peter said hopefully. "Just steal stuff?"

"I'm just the messenger," Voorhees said, exasperation creeping into his voice. "I hope you say no so I can kill you. I'm the wrong person to ask a lot of detailed questions."

"I'm sorry," Peter said, cowering down. "Who is your boss?"

"Santa Claus. Look, you'll find out soon enough. You're in?"

"I'm in," Peter whispered. "Give me the antidote."

Klaus half smiled. "Here you are," he said. "You've just made my employer a very happy man."

"I'll bet," Peter muttered. He took the ampoule and injected himself; immediately the venomous pain eased a little. He handed the ampoule back.

Voorhees reached out to take it, and was caught completely by surprise as Peter's other hand darted out with a loop of plastic, guiding it over Voorhees's wrist and tugging. The zip tie whizzed down, constricting around Voorhees's wrist; Peter gave it a superhumanly powerful tug that forced the tough plastic to constrict down to bone.

As Voorhees gasped with pain and startlement, Peter grinned. The other end of the zip tie was already tightened down on a pair of handcuffs. Peter jerked Voorhees off balance and snapped the cuffs down on the gazebo railing, then he sprang back.

Voorhees stared down at the tie on his wrist and the cuff that held him to the gazebo. "What is this all about?" he hissed. "I'll get you Parker. I'll get your family, your friends, your third grade teacher. I'll punish everyone you ever knew, and I might end it for you slowly after that."

"Oh yeah?" Peter countered. "How you gonna square that with the parole board, Voorhees?"

Voorhees stood stock still and silent for a long moment, his eyes wide and furious.

Peter smiled. Then he walked away.

Voorhees fired a string of foul liquid from his mouth, but Peter easily evaded it and moved around to the other side of the gazebo. Voorhees cut loose with a fearsome screech of rage. His free arm flicked, and he held a knife. He began rapidly sawing at the plastic.

He heard running feet as the plastic parted under the knife. Voorhees winced as he dug into his flesh trying to cut the plastic cuff off. A fat man came into view, wrapped in a spotted trench coat. His jowls bounced and jiggled with his exertion, and his piggish eyes were worried. "Voorhees!" he said. "What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here, Bantry?" Voorhees snarled.

"Be more careful, Voorhees," Bantry said. "Nobody saw me, but we gotta get some distance. I got an anonymous phone tip you were getting into trouble."

"I'm going to disembowel Parker," Voorhees hissed.

"Fine. Later." Bantry looked around wildly. "We gotta get out of this place." Voorhees cut the cuff off, flexed his fingers, and nodded. They glanced around and moved quickly towards the park exit.

Neither of them noticed the paper bag still sitting by the bench.


	17. Respite

Bantry and Voorhees were walking fast when they reached the gate. Bantry's car was parked across the street. They headed through—

From behind bushes on either side of the path and whirling around to close from the front gate, a tactical squad of eight police officers in full riot gear with shotguns surrounded the pair in a quick maneuver.

"Freeze!" one shouted. "You are under arrest!"

Bantry put his hand on Voorhees arm and smiled. "There must be a mistake," he said, smiling and fishing out his badge.

Two officers grabbed Voorhees and a third put heavy zip ties on his wrists.

"That's my prisoner!" Bantry protested. Then cold steel cuffs snapped heavily down on his wrists too. "What is the meaning of this?!"

Another man in a trench coat shouldered through the barrier of officers. Bantry blinked. "Thank God, somebody with some sense," Bantry said. "Brilhart, get these apes offa me!"

Brilhart locked eyes with Bantry. He pulled a tape recorder out of his pocket and clicked play.

_"I'm going to disembowel Parker." "Fine, later. We gotta get out of this place."_ click.

For a long moment Bantry just stared at him slack jawed. He went white to the lips. Voorhees swore.

"Read them their rights," Brilhart said softly. "Do this by the book."

Then the pair were hustled into an armored truck that rumbled away. Only Brilhart remained.

Peter walked up to him. "Thanks," he said. "I mean it. Thanks a lot."

"That antidote work for you?"

"Yes," Peter said. He handed the wire microphone back to Brilhart. "I left the transmitter at the gazebo, and those cuffs you let me borrow."

"Thanks for the tip on the zip ties," Brilhart said. He looked closely at Peter. "Are you an independent thief?"

"No," Peter said seriously. "And I won't be. I never have been. I have a talent for covering ground, but I'll never turn to crime. Voorhees and whoever he's working for tried to force me. I won't do it."

Brilhart slowly nodded. "That's good enough for me. For now."

Peter quietly smiled. "You know I'm not like everyone else," he said. "Can you keep it between us?"

Brilhart looked up at the sky. "Never give me a reason to be sorry, Parker," he said. "Who is going to move on you next?"

"I wish I knew," Peter sighed. "Did you all figure out who Lincoln worked for?"

"At one time or another, everybody," shrugged Brilhart. "Voorhees is slippery and insane as they come."

Peter glanced over to see an officer returning with the paper bag and its transmitting device that Peter had left at the gazebo. "Think you can get Voorhees locked up?"

"Sure," Brilhart shrugged. "For a while. Even if he plea bargains and reveals his employer. Which I don't imagine he will." He looked at Peter. "Keep your head down out there."

Peter flashed him a quick smile and disappeared down the trail.

Brilhart walked to his car, dropped into it, and drove away into the city.

**xXx**

The phone hadn't finished its first ring when Beck snatched it up. "Yes?"

"It's me," came a sibilant voice from the other end. Beck glanced at Fisk and nodded.

"Well, you've wasted your phone call," Beck snapped.

"What do I do?" Voorhees hissed.

"You keep your mouth shut and you reflect on your errors, you sloppy fool. I warned you. Don't get involved with his people. But you ignored my direct order. That alone is enough reason to send you back to jail. A few years might be good for you. And don't try to offer us up," he added, his voice lowering and his eyes narrowing. "You more than anyone know they can't protect you in prison. If it comes to that."

"I know how to do this," Voorhees said, subdued. "I've been sent up the river before."

"Just remember this," Beck said softly. "It's your own fault you're in there. Next time, pay a little more respect to your betters." He hung up.

Turned to Fisk.

"Your betters," Fisk rumbled. "Perhaps it is time for you to prove it."

"Come again?" said Beck.

Fisk turned to look at a painting on the wall of the board room. "Parker has become intriguing," he said. "He is more physically powerful than we had guessed, but he is also possessed of sufficient cunning and will to carry him through our initial efforts. Now he is a challenge. Now I want to know how it will turn out." He looked at Beck. "I'm putting you personally in charge of the effort now. You will be given the resources you need."

"I'm not excited about this," Beck said nervously.

"You seem to have insight into his character," Fisk said in a soft, cavernous voice. "You've demonstrated time and time again you know the right way to handle the situation but you've been failed by the agents I have placed at your disposal." He nodded. "Now you can hand pick your own. My resources are at your disposal. Within reason, of course. Bring me this spider ghost."

"More hitters and thugs are a waste of time," Beck said cautiously. "This is going to have to be subtle."

"Then be subtle," Fisk said with a dangerous smile. "There is an art to bringing an independent man to heel. Show me."

Beck sighed. "I'll need a few weeks to get ready," he said.

"I want it done by the time I return from Japan," Fisk rumbled.

The conversation was over.

Beck left the room.

**Monday, November 4**

Peter strolled away from the cashier, carrying his tray. He spotted a redhead sitting alone, and he half smiled. Then he dropped down into the booth opposite her, settling his tray.

"I got the bad guy," he says.

"This hardly counts as lunch, tiger," she said, glancing down at her meatloaf and mashed potatoes on the plastic plate.

"I know," he said with a nod. "I'll do better. I'm kind of… you know… worn out right now."

"I can only imagine," she said. "You got the bad guy, curtain down, live happily ever after." She smiled at him.

"Not for everyone," he said softly, distracted and looking out the window, completely missing her smile. "Tomorrow is the funeral for the officers Lincoln tore up. Doesn't help them, or Aunt May."

Mary Jane touched his hand, and he looked at her, startled.

"It does help me," she said softly, looking him in the eye.

That moment seemed to last a long time.

Then she sat back. "I gotta go. I'm helping Harry with his World Civ homework. We're gonna study. See you around, Parker," she said. Then she turned and walked away.

Peter watched her go, and sighed. Then he looked out the window.

"I don't feel a whole lot safer," he murmured to himself.

_Nor should you_, his thoughts whispered. _Somebody still has your number. Somebody knows who you are. Somebody has access to a seemingly never-ending wellspring of freaks and creeps and weirdoes_.

"Is this how you talk about me when I'm not around?" Peter asked himself softly, almost smiling.

_Just wondering what's coming next… Considering the observation post was abandoned. Perhaps it's time we went fishing for more digital motion sensitive cameras on rooftops. Go spelunking for dirtbags. Find the bottom of this barrel. Relocate. Hunt them._

"If this makes me change my life, then they've won," Peter muttered. "Listen to yourself. We're not Kravinoff."

_Incoherent nonsense,_ whispered a thought in his mind. _If they scrape you off the street with a spatula they've won._

"Yes, but it won't come to that," Peter said.

The end of the conversation felt somehow inconclusive.


	18. Wreck

**PART TWO: NEGATIVE SPACE**

**Thursday, November 21**

Beck closed his eyes, listening to the speedy thwack and tic of the air hockey table in the background, settling his thoughts.

"Gentlemen," he said. "If I could have a moment." He opened his eyes, and his two assistants were walking towards where he sat in the recliner, comfortable in the otherwise empty warehouse loft.

"Grummins, glad you could make it. How's the leg?" he said.

"Healed up fine," said Grummins. "I'm good as new." He smiled. He was a large man. Not huge, but very strong. He kept his hair short. There was something mean deep in his eyes.

"How about you, Wylde?" he asked the other man, who was short and wiry with a stiff dark beard. Wylde grinned.

"I'm ready for some troublemaking," he said. "I've been so bored without you, Beck."

Beck nodded. "Then let's do this," he said. "First of all, it's important to note the philosophical position that will inform our actions in this case. Currently, our target, Peter Parker, is operating from a position of strength. He believes he can handle whatever comes because he has security." Beck stood and walked over to the balcony to look out over the empty warehouse. Voorhees's tools and workbench had been pushed to the side, and Beck had inherited the space.

"Parker has housing, family, finances, car, and school. Matters of the heart are still murky. Religion doesn't seem to enter into the equation. So," he said, turning to face his thugs, "we will strip his securities from him one by one until he is desperate and weak. When he is operating from a position of weakness, he will be looking for help instead of having it thrust upon him."

"If I remember the file right," Grummins said, "the whole frontal assault thing was a total bust."

"Usually is," Beck shrugged. "We are going to be a little more subtle. We aren't going to hit him then offer him money. It's not generally well received when you attack someone and threaten their families then ask them to work for you." He sighed. "But that's neither here nor there and what's past is past. We're going to do all our hitting and then pop the question at the end."

Beck paused for a moment, reflecting. "I imagine by then we could offer to kill him and he'd think it over. Once he's weakened, you will send him to me. I'll be in a position to use his vulnerability against him. He won't know he's been recruited until it's too late to turn back. And, in the end," he smiled, "as long as you two are careful, he'll even be grateful to me."

Wylde nodded, his eyes glittering. "Point the way, chief."

"Step one," Beck said softly, holding up a finger. "Car."

**Friday, November 22**

Peter sat at the stoplight drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of his new used car. He glanced over at Harry. "You're awful quiet this morning," he said.

"I dunno," Harry said, scratching at his mat of hair. Several strands sprang out of place. Peter raised his eyebrows. He had never seen Harry accidentally displace his hair before.

"What's on your mind, pardner?" Peter asked.

"You'll think it's stupid," Harry said, looking out the window.

"So?" Peter said. "Spill it already."

"You sound like MJ," Harry said, glancing at him with half a smile. "Seig Heil!"

"Ouch!" Peter grinned. He drove past the front entrance to the school. Late in the morning it was best to circle around and come in the back way. More parking.

"And that's what I'm thinking about," Harry said. "Mary Jane Watson. Since the Halloween party on that weekend, she's been… I dunno. Distant. Any idea why she'd get like that?" Harry asked.

"Don't ask me for advice on--"

Peter's senses went wild; he froze at the wheel. What!?

A moment later, he dimly heard Harry say, "Peter?" when from the end of the narrow street a car swerved around the corner, zooming at deeply unsafe speed straight for them. Peter stomped on the gas and cranked the wheel, trying to get out of the way into an alley, but it was much too late.

With a resounding crash, the other car slammed into the front corner of Peter's car, shoving it back to crumple into the building. Peter instinctively touched the dashboard with his adhesion and exerted all his strength, and he remained in his seat as the car screeched and crushed around him; he realized too late that Harry—

wasn't wearing his seatbelt—

but he was too slow. Harry was tossed forward to smack into the dash, then hurled back into the seat, his head whipping from the dashboard to the headrest. As he crumpled in the seat and the passenger area deformed, Peter saw the other driver unstrap in a smooth motion and roll out of the car, landing in a runner's crouch and then taking off. The heavyset driver whirled down the side street moving fast.

He was wearing a helmet and a football mouth guard.

So this was a deliberate attack.

But Peter's senses were absorbed with Harry, who was unconscious with shallow breathing. So much blood…

He managed to clamber out through the windshield. "Somebody call an ambulance!" he yelled at the banks of windows on either side of the alley. So many people, and yet no witnesses. Peter ducked back into the car and checked Harry's vitals. Blood everywhere, and some nasty bruises, but he didn't look lethally injured. A few moments later, Peter heard sirens fire up not far away, and he let his eyes slide shut with relief.

A police car drove up the narrow back street, lights on.

The car screeched to a halt and the policeman got out as Peter fumbled in his glove box to get his registration. Peter clambered out of the car as the policeman strolled up.

"What happened?" the policeman asked.

"My passenger is seriously hurt," Peter said quickly. An ambulance pulled into the alley from the other end, driving down and parking. Medical technicians hopped out and moved towards Harry, forced to scramble over the crumpled hoods. Peter stepped away from the wreck, and looked at the police officer.

"I turned up this street," Peter said, allowing a tremor in his voice. "This maniac came screeching around the corner and rammed me. I tried to get out of the way in the alley, but there's not much room to maneuver in here. He ran that way," Peter said, pointing.

"License and registration, please," the officer said. He took the materials and went to sit in his car.

Peter ran his hands through his hair, letting out a deep breath. Liability insurance. That's all he had. After his rates jumped when the last car was totaled, he had been forced to switch. So now?

"Now I have no car," he said softly, and his heart sank.

**xXx**

"We have _got_ to stop meeting like this," Peter said to Mary Jane in a tone that really, really _wanted_ to be kidding. The E.R. waiting room was almost crowded, but they found a corner to talk.

Mary Jane turned to see him, then gave him a quick hug. "Thanks for calling me, Peter," she said. "Is he going to be okay?"

"I think so," Peter shrugged. "He didn't look too badly damaged, and I didn't hurt him any worse."

"Do you think this is related to that Halloween unpleasantness?" Mary Jane asked, her eyes serious.

"Gotta be," Peter said, shaking his head. "Harry was just in the wrong time at the wrong place. But this doesn't fit what was going on then. Nobody tried to talk to me. And they know better than to think that would kill me."

"Are you hurt?" Mary Jane asked.

"Not a scratch," Peter said, shaking his head. He looked at her for a moment. "Seatbelt," he said.

"Yeah," she said, and she slid down into one of the chairs. Peter sat by her. They waited for news.

**xXx**

"Most impressive," the portly man in his expensive suit said. He sat back in his leather chair and looked over the large desk at the man sitting across from him. "I'm honored that you want to spend your sabbatical here."

The man across the desk was lean and powerful, with close cropped black hair and piercing blue eyes. He smiled, his whole face shifting. There was something fascinating about his features.

"Your school appealed to me, Dean," he said. "I've been wanting to try my hand at some counseling. Every theorist wants a little field testing now and then. And it will be nice to get away from my work in California to get my paper written." He smiled graciously.

"I hope you find our accommodations to your satisfaction," the Dean said, leaning back in his chair. "Professor Beck, welcome to the team."

"Thank you," Beck said with a nod. "I'm glad to be able to help."

**xXx**

"Mary Watson?" the nurse said.

"Yes?" Mary Jane said.

"Harry Osborn is being moved to a standard room, out of the trauma unit. If you like, in about twenty minutes you can go and visit him. He'll be in room four twelve."

"Is he okay?" Mary Jane asked.

The nurse glanced back at the desk. "Yes," she said absently. "concussion, fractured wrist, banged his knee pretty good, a couple of cracked ribs and lots of bruises, some superficial cuts. We're keeping him overnight, but he can probably go home tomorrow."  
"Thanks," Mary Jane said, smiling. The nurse was already moving away.

Peter returned with coffee. "Let me guess," he said, taking one look at her. "The doctor came."

She shrugged. "Your timing is lousy, Parker," she said. "Coffee. Gimme."

Peter gave her one of the cups of cheap nasty coffee, and he took an experimental sip of the other one. Shrugged. "Tastes like brewed dirt," he muttered to himself, his mind far away.

"We can go see him in twenty minutes," Mary Jane said.

"Make it a half hour," Peter shrugged. "We _are_ in a hospital. Do you have your cell phone?"

"Yeah," she said. "Why?"

"Let's go outside," Peter said. They threaded through the emergencies and got out to the parking lot.

"I'd like to call Harry's dad, or you can, to let him know what happened," Peter said.

"Oh my gosh," Mary Jane said, her eyes getting big. "I can't believe I forgot to do that." She pulled out her phone and punched in an autodial number. Peter hopped up on the waist-high wall and glanced at his feet. At least he'd remembered to retrieve his shoes. He followed the wall down the side of the parking lot, reflecting on how much thicker the six inch wall was than the line he had to walk every day.

After a minute, Mary Jane strolled over to where he stood at the end of the parking lot.

"How'd he take it?" Peter asked distantly.

"His assistant will prioritize delivering the information to him at once," Mary Jane said sourly. "Told me that the hospital had already called. Like we're pestering him. God his dad is a creep and a half, Peter."

"Can I borrow your phone?" Peter asked.

"Sure," she said. "What for?"

"Maybe," he said with a small smile, "I should tell my teachers why I'm not in class."


	19. Eviction

The door slammed behind Grummins as he walked with smooth grace, balancing the two bags of small cardboard cartons. "Dinner," he said curtly. There was a scrabbling in the loft, and Wylde swung over the railing on the balcony. He caught the lip of the balcony as he dropped, hung full length and dropped to land in a crouching roll that put him on his feet effortlessly unhurt and in range of the Chinese take out. Beck glanced up from where he was tinkering with some peculiar flat tubes on his workbench.

"Good job, Grummins," Beck said. "I hear the car wreck went off without a hitch."

"So it did," Grummins nodded. "He saw me, but I didn't stick around for pleasantries."

"Just as well," Beck said with a nod. "I need both of you."

"How'd your interview go?" Wylde asked as he tore the lid of the carton in his haste to get to noodles.

"Good," Beck said. "I had forgotten how much those in academia beg to be given something to believe." He adjusted the flat tubing that he had strapped on to his sweater. Tubes also ran down the sides of his legs.

"What are you working on, boss?" asked Grummins.

"Just a little something," Beck said airily. Then he grinned, and settled into a stance. He intoned softly a few words, moving his hands, and from the tubing on his legs a thick mist billowed out. He gestured with his hands, and more mist billowed around him. He was engulfed. In moments it was already thinning, swirling, like the wispy smoke of a hundred extinguished candles. It hung in the air.

"Boss?" Wylde said. He peered at the mist, frowning.

"Something in the way of misdirection," Beck said from six feet behind them. They jumped and turned to see him adjusting the setting on a nozzle. "I'm really quite pleased with the effect."

"Not bad," Grummins said with a grin and a nod. "Not bad at all."

"Parker will never see it coming," Beck said with a shrug. "At least, that's the idea. And now it's time for the second phase of our nefarious plot," he said. He smiled at his thugs, but there was something thoughtful in his smile. "Housing." He picked up the phone and punched in a number.

**xXx**

It was almost dark when Peter trudged home. He turned on the sidewalk and headed towards his rental bungalow. He saw a shadow move in the living room, and several lights were on.

"So," he said softly to himself, "is this the pitch at last?" He shook his head and crept up to the front door, opening it a crack and peering in.

Much to his surprise, his landlord stood in the living room.

Peter opened the door. "Mister Ackly," he said. "Is there a problem with the rent?"

"No no," the pudgy bald man said nervously. He picked at his sweater absently. "I've had something come up."

"Something?" Peter said as warning alarms went off deep in his mind.

"Yes," Ackly said, not making eye contact. "My mother needs to come live with us, her nursing home doesn't take her insurance anymore. There's no room in my house," he said, gesturing to his house next door. "Need a ground floor place for her that's nearby. I really am sorry, Osborn."

"I'm Parker," Peter said, feeling numb.

"Whatever. Sorry. Have your stuff out of here by two tomorrow afternoon, that's when she gets here. I'm really sorry," he said with a shrug. "I'll get your deposit back to you and refund you for the last week in the month. I gotta go."

Peter stood stock still as the landlord scurried past him.

"Wait," Peter said suddenly. Ackly froze. "You gotta help me help you," Peter said. "I'm too young, they won't rent me a van. I'll need one for a couple days. Will you go to the car rental and sign off?"

"Uh," he said.

"That's the _least_ you can do," Peter said with an edge to his voice.

"Let me get my coat," Ackly said quickly. He left.

"We just got evicted," Peter mused to himself. He looked around the place he had come to think of as home, his space in the city.

His brain kicked into gear. No car to move stuff. He briefly entertained the notion of moving everything into Aunt May's house, but there really genuinely wasn't room. What to do?

"Okay, spider brain," he gritted out. "Figure this one out. How are we going to pull this off?"

_How come when it's _you_ that wants something it's how are '_we'_ going to pull it off, but when _I_ want something, it's all about what '_you'_ are going to do?_

"Quit whining and get busy," Peter muttered. "I am _so_ not in the mood."

Peter got started.

**Saturday, November 23**

Peter walked down the hall, barely glancing at room numbers. He enjoyed his spider sense keeping him up to speed on things like signs and directions. He instinctively navigated the hospital to Harry's room.

As he approached the room, he heard voices. He slowed down to listen.

"as we're clear on that. Look, Harry, I have to go. I've got a deal to close this afternoon. It's big. I'll be back this afternoon to pick you up."

"Yes sir," Harry said.

A man in a dark coat, middling height, and tight auburn hair came out of the hospital room. He saw Peter and drew himself up to his full height.

"Parker," he said tonelessly.

"Yes sir," Peter said.

Harry's father shook his head once and walked towards him. Peter stepped out of the way as Mr. Osborn headed straight for the elevators. Peter watched him go, then stepped into the room.

"I didn't bring you flowers," Peter said with a shrug.

Harry chuckled and winced. "That's just peachy," he said. "My heart was set on it."

Harry's head was wrapped in a white bandage, and both his eyes were heavily bruised. He had several cuts on his face. His ribs were taped, his wrist was in a cast. He was pale.

"How you feeling, champ?" Peter said. "I figured we should play racquetball tomorrow morning, whaddya say?" He grinned.

"Yer a punk, I'll beat you anyway," Harry said with a feeble grin.

"Yeah," Peter said. "Hey, is your dad that chilly with everybody?"

"Almost," Harry shrugged. "You're special. You got me in a car wreck."

"Oh," Peter said. "Does he really think this is all my fault?"

"Sure," Harry said with just a hint of bitterness. "He's in total control of his destiny, isn't everyone else?"

"I, uh, have some bad news," Peter said.

"What, they cancelled the Gilligan reruns?" Harry said.

Peter shook his head. "Ackly just evicted us."

"What?" Harry said, genuinely shocked.

"Yeah, I know," Peter said. "His mother's moving into our bungalow, her insurance was rejected at the nursing home."

"But," Harry sputtered, "but"

"That's what I said," Peter agreed. "I boxed everything up and rented a van, made a couple trips and managed to fit everything we had there into one of those rental storage spaces off Bleeker. That'll do for the time being. Until we figure out what to do."

"We should sue him for all he's worth," Harry said. "We'd win, too. I happen to know some lawyers. Hell, we could _own_ that bungalow."

"Yeah," Peter said, shifting awkwardly. "But then both him _and_ his mom are on the street." He shook his head. "You sure you want to do that?"

"Don't worry about it," Harry said. "I'm _not_ my father. I'll just have to move _in_ with him, that's all."

"You sure about that?" Peter asked, concerned.

"You're moving in with your aunt, aren't you?" Harry said with half a smile. "Don't worry about me. It's a little awkward, but nothing I can't handle."

"So…" Peter said. "Once we get things sorted out, want to room together again?"

"We'll just have to see," Harry said distantly, "when things are sorted out."

**xXx**

Peter was walking slower than he usually did when he walked up the steps to Aunt May's house. He opened the door with his key and walked in. Then he froze.

Aunt May was sitting on the couch, with the television on. She was quietly and daintily snoring. Peter was struck by how… frail she looked. Her hair was in disarray, she was wrapped in an old and frayed bathrobe over her pajamas. Abandoned knitting was on the cushion next to her. Peter felt a sudden overwhelming wave of shame; she would not want him to see her like this. He noiselessly slipped out and closed the door behind himself.

Peter climbed back into the rental van and slammed the door. Well, it _is_ lunchtime, he thought. He headed to the fast food strip a few blocks over and down the street.

He wasn't paying attention as he picked a restaurant, got his food, and ate. He barely remembered it. Then he got to the pay phone. "Gotta get me a cell phone," he muttered. "It'd be cheaper."

She answered on the third ring. "Parker residence, May speaking," she said.

"Hey," Peter said. "I was wondering if I could come by. Maybe in about fifteen minutes?"

"Sure," she said. "That would be nice. I'll look forward to it."

"Okay," Peter said. "See ya then." He hung up.

He took his sweet time getting back to the house.

This time when he strolled in she was in the kitchen puttering, wearing her plain blue dress and her canvas house shoes, her hair done up in a bun. Peter smiled to himself.

"Hey there, pretty lady," he said.

"Hello, Peter," she said, her voice thin and worn. "Have you eaten?"

"Actually yes," he said. "But don't let me get in your way."

"Have a sandwich to be sociable," she said. "You're a growing boy, after all."

"Fair enough," he said, and he sat at the table as she finished cutting the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in half diagonally. She put the plate on the table and sat down opposite him. He smiled to himself and picked up a triangular sandwich. "Been a while since I had one of these."

"Well, you don't pack a lunch any more, I'll bet," she said primly.

"Nah," Peter said. "Me primal college boy. Me live on edge. Me scrounge food between class. Starve till dinner." He smiled at her. "Sorry, the 'Make Aunt May Crazy' urge just kicked in."

"Almost forgot milk," she said. "We both need our calcium."

"Okay, ya got me back," Peter grinned. "I'll get it." He got up and got the milk and two glasses.

Aunt May took her time but she ate one of her sandwich halves. Then she picked up a plastic container with seven lids over small boxes.

"What's that?" Peter asked.

"My lunch pills," Aunt May said. She fumbled with the lid and managed to force it open. "I have to take these with food." She dumped out a pile of pills of all different shapes and colors and sizes.

"What is all that?" Peter breathed.

"Well," she said with a slightly pained smile, trying to be graceful in the face of her weakness, "this one is for blood pressure. This one a calcium supplement, this one a vitamin… oh, I can hardly remember," she said with a flutter of her hands. "I have the chart upstairs." She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Does insurance cover all that?" Peter asked.

"Oh, mostly," she lied.

He suddenly realized that after her last hospital visit… he saw again the fresh hollowness around her eyes, around her cheeks. He realized that her delicate financial balance couldn't support this. And he looked down at the table to try to keep his sudden understanding from dawning on her.

"I'll be back in a minute," she said graciously, and she took her pills into the restroom. Not ladylike to swallow so many pills when it is so difficult, in front of your nephew…

Peter took a deep breath and leaned back.


	20. Collapse

Peter walked up to the front door, which he left propped open, and he set down a box with a thud. He turned and headed back to the van. When he returned with another box of books, Aunt May was standing in the living room looking surprised.

"What are you doing, Peter?" she asked.

"Hey, is it okay if I move back in with you?" Peter said.

"Well, of course," she said with a sudden smile. "But what about your friends?"

He shrugged. "Our landlord got a better offer," he said. "It's either go live with Harry's dad or with my sweet Aunt May." He smiled winningly.

"Oh, Peter," she said. "Do you need a hand with that?"

"Believe it or not," he said under his breath, "I got it."

"Your old room is just the way you left it," she said.

"And I appreciate that," Peter said. "Can I put some of this stuff in the basement?"

"Sure," she said with a nod. "I'll go air out your room." She tottered up the steps.

Peter finished unloading the van. He really didn't have that much stuff. Most of the storage had been filled by Harry's things. Peter reflected a moment on how much he was going to miss Harry's big screen, console video games, stereo surround sound system, dvd burners, computer setup… he shook his head. And, of course, Harry.

"At least this way I won't disrupt his social life," Peter muttered to himself. The idea made him feel petty and mean, so he shrugged it off. "Never mind."

He navigated around the boxes and headed for the basement steps. On the way, he walked by the old secretary roll-top desk. It's top was rolled down.

That caught his eye. He could never once remember it being rolled down before. He touched it, adhered to it, tugged.

Not only closed but locked.

"Or _not_," he muttered to himself. He flexed just slightly, and the weedy lock on the desk was sprung. He rolled it up, quietly, listening to Aunt May making his bed and adjusting things.

The first thing to catch his eye was the dismal sheaf of bills. He sat down at the desk, his heart sinking.

Utilities, second notice. Mortgage, third notice. Second mortgage, second notice. Gas, shutoff notice. Credit card, third notice and increase in interest. Second credit card, same. Third credit card, late. He felt his hands start to shake as he shuffled through the stack. Aunt May… why didn't you tell me?

Then he got to the doctor bills.

The _rest_ of the doctor bills.

"This is all my fault," he whispered, and he saw Voorhees's sneer in his minds eye.

_Oh yeah? Then what are you going to do about it?_

**xXx**

Wylde walked toward the back of the warehouse, hefting a sizeable box. "Chief!" he yelled. "Fisk's people dropped this off."

"Just a minute," Beck said, carefully scooping powder into a glass tube. He then moved the stone plate he had been working on into the fume hood and slipped it closed. "What?"

"Box. For you. From Fisk," Wylde said. "What do you have over there?"

Beck smiled. "This one," he said, tapping one with blue powder, "has your worst nightmare. Whatever that may be. This one," he said, tapping the next, "turns to a narcotic gas when exposed to air. This one is itching powder."

"Wow," Wylde said. "You got a lot of chemical badness going on."

Beck shrugged. "If Parker wants to turn it into a confrontation," he said, "I prefer to be ready to put him off his guard so I can beat him. Raw speed and strength aren't enough."

"Do you know what's in the box?" Wylde asked.

"Yes," Beck said with a grim smile. "Yes I do. Go get Grummins. I have a job for him."

"Aye captain," Wylde said. He turned and walked away as Beck scooped up a crowbar and descended on the box.

**xXx**

Peter finished his calculation in his check register. He had just enough in his savings account to cover the immediate bills and a couple doctor bills. He started stuffing envelopes with bills and checks as he heard the slight creak of the stairs as Aunt May came down. He resolutely continued in his task.

"Peter?" she said. Then she saw him at the desk. "**Peter!**" she said. "What do you think you're doing!" He almost flinched; he had never behaved badly enough as a child to extract that much shock in one sentence.

"Paying rent," he said. He stood up and turned to face her.

"No," she said, horrified. "I can't accept."

Peter smiled at her gently. "We're family, Aunt May. And you've done the same for me. This is my choice. We're in this together, pretty lady. I just got paid for my last batch of pics for the Planetary. I can think of no better way to spend it." He walked up to her and gave her a hug. "Let's get some dinner going."

She gave him a squeeze, and when he stepped back her eyes were shining with unshed tears. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, patted it. Her mouth quivered just a little. But he sensed a tremendous relief. She nodded, and they walked into the kitchen.

**Sunday, November 24**

Grummins lay in the back seat of his car. He popped a pretzel in his mouth and munched. Then he put up his small periscope again, looking over the front seat and out the windshield. Nothing. He lowered it and listened, waiting.

Not thirty seconds later, the front door to the Parker residence opened, and Peter helped Aunt May down the steps. They started walking down the sidewalk. Grummins popped up the periscope and watched them go. They turned the corner.

"Right," he muttered. "Off to church." He opened the car door at his feet with the toe of his cowboy boot, then he pushed it open and managed to wriggle to a sitting position and up out of the car. He brushed the crumbs from chips and crackers off his chest. He shut the door, looked both ways, and crossed the street.

He strolled up to the front door and pulled a small, peculiar gun from his pocket. He stuck its tip in the door lock and squeezed the grip. The tumblers tripped, and Grummins strolled right in.

He closed the door, then jogged up the stairs to the second floor bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the bottles. He opened all the small bottles, then compared sizes and shapes. With half a grin he started mixing and matching…

**xXx**

Peter sighed and looked over at the clock. Almost three o'clock already. He glanced over the quick list of homework he had from the previous week and the weekend that he really had planned to do, but things kept coming up… he groaned softly to himself.

Then he buckled down and got lost in the work, moving fast and with confidence, whirling over the objective ground and skirting subjective issues for the moment.

He heard a thump from downstairs, a quiet thump. Without his senses he would not have caught it. He stood, and glanced down the stairwell. "Aunt May, you okay down there?"

No answer.

He was down the stairs and in the kitchen in a heartbeat and a half. Aunt May lay on the floor, on her back, mouth open, eyes glazed. Peter quickly knelt by her; she had a pulse, however faint and erratic.

"I have no car," he realized as panic squeezed his heart. He gritted his teeth, scooped her up, and sprinted out the front door.

Down the block, Grummins started his car and smiled to himself. "Fait accompli," he muttered.

It was just as well Aunt May was unconscious during the wild ride through the city at night, carried by the spider ghost as though she were weightless, fragile, and precious.

Peter burst into the emergency room with Aunt May in his arms. "Somebody's gotta help me! I don't know what's wrong with her!" he shouted.

"Does she have insurance?" asked one of the nurses.

"Yes, Medicare and Medicaid and all that crap," Peter said. "Quick help her!" and two orderlies wheeled up a gurney. Her eyes opened a little. She struggled with fear and words as they carted her into the intensive care unit, Peter alongside.

"I don't know what happened," he said to the doctor who fell in with the procession.

"Medication? Did she fall?"

"She might have had her medication, sure, she was on the floor when I found her."

"What medications is she taking?"

"She was here last time when she had all that proscribed," Peter said. "Can you find out?"

The doctor nodded curtly, then they were through the doors and Peter was left behind.

Let them do their jobs.

For a moment, standing in the waiting room, Peter felt deeply helpless. He looked around, jingled the change in his pocket. Looked over at the pay phone, and shrugged. He walked over and picked up the receiver, dumped in his change, and poked the number.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up. "Osborns, 'siz Harry."

"Harry, how's it going, it's Peter," he said. "How you feeling?"

"Better," Harry said. "I'm in a lot of pain, but they gave me lots of good stuff for it. Makes playing video games a real pip, let me tell you."

Peter stuck a finger in one ear and turned away from the room. It was noisy in the waiting room, and the overhead public address kept paging doctors. "Good to hear you're getting better. That was kind of scary there for a few hours."

"Yeah," Harry said. "How's your car, by the way?"

"Totaled," Peter shrugged. "Don't worry about that though. Good to talk to you."

"Where are you, a car dealership?" Harry said. "Hell of a p.a. they got."

"No, I'm in the waiting room at the hospital."

"You okay?" Harry asked.

"Me? I'm fine. Thing is, Aunt May collapsed, they're looking at her right now."

"Hell of a thing," Harry said. "How are you holding up?"

"Just another crisis, right?" Peter said, on the edge of something like a laugh. "I think I got her here on time."

"Hang on," Harry said. "I'll fill in MJ. She's right here."

"No, Harry," Peter said. "Harry? Come on, don't have to—"

"Peter, this is MJ," she said a moment later. "I'll come on over."

"No, don't," Peter said forcefully. "Stay with Harry. He may be out of the hospital, but he still needs you, MJ. Trust me on this. I got it here. It's just waiting. I brought a book," he lied.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw the doctor coming. "Hey, it's the doctor. Gotta go."

"Peter—"

He hung up. "What news?" he asked.


	21. Denied

Grummins and Wylde stood watching Beck as he came around the corner wearing his new suit. It hugged his form more or less, and it was a dark forest green that was almost black. The patterns laid into it drew the eye away, confused his form. The edges of the pattern glittered in the light, so as he moved a shimmer moved across him.

"What the hell is that?" Grummins said.

"It's a polymer," Beck said, "Designed to shrug off piercing and cuts, and to diffuse kinetic energy. The patterns are inlaid metal weave, pretty sharp stuff. So after I spent all the time and energy getting it commissioned and all the time waiting for it, I think it's time to try this sucker out. Come on, boys. Get some clubs and let's see what you can do."

Grummins and Wylde exchanged a look.

"Boys," Beck said patiently. "I was a stunt man for almost ten years before I moved on. You aren't gonna hurt me. Let's do this. I promise to be gentle with you." He walked over to the bench and picked up two scrima sticks. He tossed one to each of them. "Okay," he said, and he settled into a combat stance.

Grummins sighed. "Okay, here goes," he said. He and Wylde moved to flank Beck, then they darted in.

Beck caught the first blow on his forearm, he quickly tugged and the metal patterns of his suit bit into the club and almost tugged it out of Grummins's hand. Wylde hit him square in the back, and he grunted and turned.

"Not bad," he said, facing them. "Didn't hurt. Let's see what you guys got in ya."

Grummins spun, slashing with the stick, and Beck took it on the shoulder and slid a few inches. Wylde lashed down at his leg, and where the stick hit it was shaved, leaving wood splinters sticking off the suit and taking almost a quarter of the stick's thickness off.

"Not bad," Beck said, raising his hand. "That'll do. Tells me what I need to know. The suit should do a number on his knuckles if he wants it to come to that. And I'm able to shrug off your hits. So I'll have some protection."

"Some neat long johns," Wylde said.

"You think that'll let you beat this Parker guy?" Grummins said skeptically.

"No, not by itself," Beck said, walking over to his workbench. The splinters fell off the suit as he moved. Beck picked up the flat pack for the tubing. "Not by itself," he murmured as he glanced over the vials of powder. "But I'm getting closer. Should it come to that."

**Monday, November 25**

Two in the morning.

Peter dropped the racquetball. Caught it on the rebound. Dropped it again. Sweat beaded and dripped from his forehead, he felt it in slow motion, its surface wobbling as it fell to shatter on the hard floor. He dropped the ball again. Then he threw it up.

He hit the ball with his strength.

His senses felt, saw it flatten as it screamed at the wall, felt the tension go out of his racquet with the hit. Damn near broke it. The ball was to the wall in a split second and rebounding at near bullet speeds. He was barefoot, ready; he sprang into the air twisting out of the way of the ball as it sizzled under him and rebounded before gravity could pull him down enough to reposition. He deflected it from the back wall to the side wall with the racquet as his mind went over his situation. Again.

Aunt May needs an operation.

The hospital won't do the operation without an outlay of cash.

He doesn't have it and doesn't know how to get it.

The hospital is willing to give her medication to make her comfortable until—

And he sprang to the side, the ball whooshed past him making his hair flail; he was faster still. He hit the speeding ball with the racquet from behind to put some extra juice on it. The walls were cracking, the ball nearly burst. Almost but not too much pressure. And the ball screamed on with lethal speed.

He let his eyes lazily drift out of focus as he held his position in the middle of the court and kept the ball in play, racquet whizzing around him to keep that one small space in the racquetball court safe from the relentlessly speeding ball.

Some hero. Can't save his aunt. People throwing money at him, but he won't do what they want even to save his aunt.

He considered, for a moment, surrendering and finding the one who was inevitably behind this and just biding his time before making the offer.

Something deep inside welled up, rebelled, and Peter knew that he couldn't. He let out a hoarse shout and crushed one last hit into the ball, then backflipped and slipped out the door while the ball helplessly thrashed around in the deserted court.

**xXx**

Peter reflected that he must have been walking for hours. He stood in the park and watched the sun shoulder its way up into the sky. He closed his eyes and breathed, and his senses informed him that it was seven thirty six and forty eight and a half seconds. Atomic time.

"Thank you," he muttered.

His mind was whirling round and round, trying to decide what to do about Aunt May. How to get the money. He was vaguely aware of returning to Aunt May's house, getting books, going to school. He reflexively checked his mailbox in the student center on his way through, and he saw a slip of red paper. He pulled it out and read it.

"No way," he said. "Absolutely no _way_." He crumpled the paper and ran to the administrative building. In a matter of minutes he was in the financial aid office.

He pushed past three students in line and went straight to the desk. "Excuse me," he said, his voice tense, "what is the meaning of this?" He brandished the red paper.

"That," the woman behind the counter said, "means you should take your place in line." She blinked at him over her glasses, her mouth in a sour pucker.

"Not today, lady, don't push me today," Peter said, struggling to maintain control. "I submitted everything I needed to submit to get my aid package for next semester. So why did I get this thing telling me the deadline is past and I won't get aid?"

She looked at him for a moment, and he met her eyes. "Name?"

"Parker, Peter Parker."

Sniffing with disapproval, she pulled up his file. "We never received your paperwork," she said.

"Never…" he said. "Well can you look again?"

His senses told him that a woman further back in the office was calling security, and it became a full time battle to repress the frustration surging up in him. He felt his temperature rising, his joints loosening. No. No no no. Not here. Not like this. No.

"Mister Parker, we've looked. If you have a problem with this, you can take it up with the Dean of Students. At this point you're holding up the line you interrupted and you are being inexcusably rude. We will do an inquiry if we are instructed to do so by the Dean of Students. Good day."

Peter stood stock still, wrestling with the urge to be more physically persuasive with the financial aid biddy. Stiffly, he dragged himself back and turned and walked out of the office.

He got to the bottom of the stairs when the security guard got to the front door of the building, huffing and puffing. The guard was reaching for the door when Peter pushed it open, perhaps a little harder than he meant to. The guard was caught by the door and tossed over the sidewalk onto the grass, where he landed with a heavy thud.

Peter immediately felt guilt; the guard looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, a smaller man. Peter quickly walked away before the guard could sit up.

"I gotta get control of myself," Peter muttered. "I gotta get a grip. This is not good." But he faced the cold hard fact that he couldn't pay for his last semester of schooling, or Aunt May's operation.

Still his opponent was faceless. He felt his teeth gritting.

Across the quad, from the student union on the third floor, Beck watched the guard pick himself up off the ground. He picked up the phone and called the dean of students.

**xXx**

Peter walked out to the quad and sat on a bench, hanging his head, his mind spinning. Everything was coming apart at the seams.

"Oh, I can't believe I almost just said that," he said in response to his thoughts. "Things can _always _get worse."

"Mister Parker?" said a woman's voice. He looked up quickly.

"Hello, Ms. Slade," he said. "Uh, I'm sorry I missed your class. I've been…" He trailed off, no excuse forthcoming, and just shrugged with an apologetic smile. "Around."

Ms. Slade was very pretty and almost beautiful. She tossed her hair back and looked down at him. "Yes, I did miss you in class," she said, "and so did the Dean of Students, Albrecht Mortenson. He wants to see you." She looked at him for a moment. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Sure," he said. "Everything's fine… peachy, you could say… Why don't I just go see the dean… Thanks for the message… I was going to see him anyway…" Peter got up and smiled at his teacher, containing the simmering pressure of frustration that was building in his chest and gut. Then he jogged towards the administrative building.

Ms. Slade sighed, shook her head, and continued down the sidewalk. "I hate it when the good kids get into drugs," she murmured to herself.


	22. Counseled

"You could be suspended for today's display," the dean said sternly. Peter could hear the quiver of nervousness in his voice. "Instead, since you're obviously a troubled student, I have decided to be lenient. This incident need not be appended to your permanent record _if_ you agree to see the school counselor."

"I can't afford counseling," Peter said.

"It is a service provided by the school. Third floor of the student union, Doctor Quentin Beck. Make an appointment with him and follow through on it, or go on suspension. Clear?" The dean looked down at a post-it note and scribed the number, pulling the tacky square of paper up and handing it to Peter.

"Clear," Peter said. He looked at the note, and turned to leave. Then he stopped and turned back around.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, "could you ask financial aid to look again for my records? I mailed them in but they can't seem to find them and they won't look without your express order."

"I'll look into it," the dean said. Peter nodded and left without being dismissed.

"Great," Peter muttered as he navigated his way down the endless staircases to get back to the ground floor. "He'll look into it. Before he even tells them to look again. And I get to go see a head shrink. Hey, maybe I can get rid of the voices in my head."

_That's not funny._

"Sez you," Peter said, and he almost laughed. But his voice had just a hint of hysteria, and he was moving faster than he normally did.

He reached the phone in the foyer of the administration building, then he stopped. "It's just not the same if I don't put change in," he said ruefully. "I'll just go find this doctor on my own. And he jogged effortlessly out the front door and across the quad and up the steps, through the student union, up more steps to the third floor. He started nosing around, looking for a counselor office.

He passed an open door. "Hey, Parker?" came a voice. He stopped and backed up.

"Yes?" he said.

There was a man in a very narrow office, with a window overlooking the quad. He had a computer wedged in by the window, and a chair by his desk, and a small bookshelf. Nothing else would fit in the office. The man inside stood up and stepped to the doorway. He had close cropped black hair, piercing blue eyes. He was built like an athlete. He wore khakis and a denim shirt, and a white tie with black splotches. "My name is Quentin Beck."

"You know mine," Peter said, "And what I look like. How do you know me?"

"I'm good with faces," Beck said. He sat down at his desk. "I imagine you're here to set up an appointment with me."

"Indeed I am," Peter said. "Dean said I had to."

"We have an arrangement during my sabbatical," Beck shrugged. "Have a seat?"

"I figure we can just make an appointment today, right?" Peter said.

"If you've got a few minutes, there's no time like the present," Beck said, flashing a smile. "I have the luxury of being a visitor, so I don't get sucked into meetings. See, meetings are the black hole of time. They prevent action, and instead there is ceaseless approval garnering to proceed with investigations to inform the plan which will be a multi-stage endeavor… I haven't the patience," he said. His smile turned sly. "Or the staff, for that matter."

"I have a few minutes," Peter said. He sat in the chair. "How does this counseling thing work?"

"I must admit, I'm a student of the mind rather than a therapist. The best place to start is to talk about what's bothering you. I always figured bartenders for pretty good shrinks," he said with a grin.

"What's bothering me?" Peter said. "The school lost the paperwork I submitted for my application for aid next semester. Wouldn't even look for it. Of course," he said, a faint blush warming his face, "I did get a little rude with the old bag behind the desk. That's enough to make anybody crazy."

"You seem like a balanced young man," Beck said, watching Peter closely. "Seems like it would take a lot more than that to encourage you to knock a security guard over a sidewalk."

Peter suddenly realized Beck's view included the door to the administration building across the quad, where the financial aid office was. "Ah," he said. "Well, my aunt keeps getting in and out of the hospital. So money is tight. And my best friend was in a car with me when we got totaled. And my landlord evicted us so I had to tell him in the hospital that he was homeless. But aside from that?" he said with a shrug. "Things are good." He felt a weird unreality that he could sum up his gargantuan troubles in a handful of words.

"I'm not here to solve your problems," Beck said quietly, "just to help you find the resources in yourself to face them."

An aging man with a grizzled beard leaned his head into Beck's office on the way by. "Come on, Beck," he said. "You're later than I am to the staff meeting! We're talking about the coffee machine setup, so if you've got an opinion you'd better be there." He moved on.

"It has begun," Beck said with a rueful smile. "I'm getting sucked into meetings. Look, Peter. If nothing else, I want you to remember two things. It can always get worse and there is always hope. Life is a fluid thing, it has a will of its own. It can overcome any planning. Hang in there. You available to meet Wednesday?"

"I'm done with class at four," Peter said.

"Promise me you'll come," Beck said.

"I promise," Peter said with a small nod.

Beck smiled. "Have a better one. Stay out of meetings."

"Thanks," Peter said, standing and hefting his schoolbag. He paused, then smiled a little and turned. He left the office suite.

Beck's smile broadened as he rubbed his hands together. "I am _quite_ pleased with how my little plan is working out," he murmured to himself. Then he picked up a pad and a pen and headed out for a meeting.

**xXx**

Peter picked up her thin, light hand and stroked the back of it. Aunt May's eyes fluttered once, then opened. She had a tube across her face, in her nose. She smiled wanly at Peter.

"How's my favorite pretty lady?" Peter asked with a grin.

"I feel much better. I'll be home soon," she managed. Peter saw the weakness, the fear in her eyes. He smiled and did his best to make it convincing.

"I've kept your plants watered," he said, "and your boxing gloves polished, a high shine on your bowling balls." His smile shifted to a grin.

"Good boy, Peter," she said with a smile, exhaustion growing in her. "Don't let this… put you behind…in your schoolwork…"

She dozed, and Peter sat beside her, motionless.

For hours.

Then he left.

**xXx**

Peter sat at the dimly lit counter in the bar, his feet hooked childlike in the rungs of the barstool. He leaned his head on his hand, his elbow on the bar. "How come they don't have cool places to play pool and listen to crappy western music that don't involve beer?" he sighed to himself.

With his other hand he played a kind of shell game on the bar with two quarters and a dime, weaving them around each other.

"I could call Strange." He listened to how that sounded coming out of his mouth, and he closed his eyes. "If Strange even can bail me out, I'd still be effectively hiring myself out. Damn." Not from coercion. From _honor._ So Peter kept thinking, over everyone he knew who had money who might give him a loan. Not Harry or his dad. Not for this. "Harry's done his part," Peter muttered, "picking up my slack when times were tight."

Then a thought occurred to him. "No," he whispered. But his mind had slithered through all its threads and come up with this one option open to him.

"I need pride to live, but I can't let it kill my aunt," he said. He got up off the bar stool and headed for the pay phone. He slotted in his money and poked in a number he had hoped he would never have to call.

**xXx**

The sally port by the big warehouse door opened, and Beck stepped in. Grummins and Wylde looked up from their game of cards.

Beck threw back his arms. "First contact with the target," he said triumphantly, "and it went well. I will be his friend now. He doesn't, _couldn't _suspect a thing."

"You da man," Wylde said with a grin. "We'll nail this punk."

"That was never a question," Grummins said, standing. "What now?"

"Now," Beck said, "I'm going to suit up with the finishing touches and try it out as an integrated system. You two get to take the evening off. I think we're all set to where Mysterio and Beck can finish out the end game."

"Mysterio?" Wylde said. A smile bloomed in his face as he tried not to laugh. "Sounds like something you'd get out of a crackerjack box."

"Doesn't matter," Beck shrugged. "It's just misdirection. Wiggling the fingers on this hand," he said, darting his hand out, "while this one comes up with the Glock." He grinned at them, gun in hand. He palmed it away as fast as he had pulled it out.

"You are crazy, man," Wylde said. "Kray. Zee." He sat back down and picked up his cards.


	23. Just Reward

Peter broke.

The pool balls scattered around the table, both a stripe and a solid tumbling down holes.

"Ain't that always the way," he muttered to himself. "I guess I'll just play both sides."

The front door of the bar opened and closed, and Peter knew who had come in. He sank three balls with an expert shot. "Stripes first," he said to himself, "then we get solid."

The man in the leather coat and cowboy hat walked up behind him, moving quietly without even trying. He watched Peter sink another three balls.

"What's up, kid?" he asked in his gravelly voice.

Peter stood and turned. "Thanks for coming, Logan," he said.

Logan perched on a bar stool and tugged off his cowboy hat. His hair… unfurled. "Beer!" Logan barked at the bartender. Logan looked at Peter. "Somethin's on yer mind, I can tell. You old enough to be in here?"

Peter returned his attention to the game as Logan got a cold beer. "Money trouble," Peter said, the words costing him, effort forcing them out. "Aunt May needs an operation, my car was wrecked, I'll be kicked out of school… it runs along the lines of a suburban country song." Half the balls on the table slid down the pocket holes. "I can't get my act together and get pictures, I can't eat, I can't sleep. I don't want to tell you all my troubles, Logan, I was just wondering if you had any ideas."

Logan watched his back as he finished off the table. He sniffed, nodded once. "Don't do anything stupid. I'll see you here. Tomorrow. Got that?"

"Okay," Peter said in a small voice. Logan got up, paid for his beer, and left the bar. Peter put his head down on the table.

"Great, Parker," he said. "Smooth."

He went home.

**xXx**

"Showtime," Beck said. He stood by the door to the office, up on the balcony. He was in the dark greenish suit, and he had a cloak pinioned on his shoulders. Under his arm was a big glassy bowl like an astronaut's helmet. Beck launched from the balcony and fell, slapping down on the ground. He stood easily. They noticed he had added greaves along his forearms, probably for blocking. They were bladed like the suit was.

"I like this suit," he said. He smiled at them, then clamped the reflective bowl on and spun it a couple times, so it was firmly attached to the socket on his shoulders. The socket was strapped under his arms and across his back, providing ample support to keep the globe on should it be hit.

"Great," Grummins muttered. "I work for the magic eight ball." Wylde giggled.

A faint chilling mist rose up from the floor, coiling around the dark figure with the glassy helmet. "_The time has come for a reckoning,_" whispered a sepulchral voice, coming from everywhere at once. "_The spider ghost will submit… or perish._" The mist engulfed the entirety of Mysterio's form, then they saw the helmet in the mist become translucent, begin to glow—

Within, the eerie glowing visage of a greenish skull took form. A deep laugh rolled from the air around them, then the cloak swooped once, violently shifting the mist. It broke up, leaving the area hazy, but Mysterio was gone.

"Er," Grummins said, "Maybe we shouldn'ta made fun of his helmet."

"Wow," said Wylde.

From the rafters, Beck looked down with a satisfied smile.

Tuesday, November 26 

Someone touched the front door. Peter did a kippup in bed and whirled noiselessly behind the bedroom door. Then he woke up, checked back along his senses to see why he wasn't in bed anymore.

Ah.

He opened the door to his room noiselessly as the front door opened. He had forgotten to lock it. Great. He squatted up at the top of the stairs, watching.

Mary Jane.

Peter sprang back, darted into his room, and dressed rapidly. In moments he was back at the top of the stairs.

He heard her in the kitchen, heard the coffee maker start up.

"MJ? Is that you?" he said.

She poked her head out of the kitchen. "Accept no substitute," she said. "I thought you could use a ride to school. Since you missed each and every one of your classes yesterday, boy genius."

"How's Harry doing?" Peter asked, leaning against the wall.

She shrugged. "Harry's feeling sorry for himself. Only so much 'Woe is me' I can handle before I want to smack him."

"Did you?" Peter asked.

"Of course not," she said. "I don't believe in beating your boyfriend. Shows poor upbringing. How are _you _holding up?"

"Peachy," he said. "Don't really want to go into details. I just keep telling myself everything will work out."

"I see," she said. "It's like that. Hang in there, tiger." She glanced back in the kitchen. "Great. You're all up and dressed and now we have to wait for coffee."

"You know," he said, "it was a lot less unnerving when you hated my guts."

"I didn't hate _you_, Peter," she said. "I hated who you pretended to be. But there's a lot more there, isn't there." Her green eyes shot right through him.

"I wish I could take that night back," he said. "Keeps me up at night, thinking about what kind of danger I have put you in."  
"Don't," Mary Jane said, perhaps too sharply. "I'm glad I know. I accept the risk. It's an exciting secret. And you have to tell _somebody._ Or you'd pop."

"It's not just that I'm the spider ghost," he said. "I mean, I'm—"

"That's far enough, mister," she said with a very serious grin. "Drop it. Enough angst. You'll get some on my new boots. Besides, coffee's up. Let's down it so we can get out of here."

Not much to say to that.

**xXx**

"I hate how it gets dark so early," Mary Jane said as she pulled up in a parking spot. "Here we are at the hospital again."

"Thanks for driving me to school this morning. And to my home away from home," Peter said. "I can take it from here." He smiled at her. Then he got out of the car and slammed the door. He turned to walk away when the window started buzzing down behind him. He turned.

"Hey Peter," Mary Jane called after him.

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget you can fly," she said, just loud enough for him to hear her. Then the car pulled away, its window scrolling up.

Peter couldn't possibly have guessed how forlorn he looked as he watched her drive away.

He turned and walked into the hospital. His pace was slow as his mind whirred at high speeds, trying to figure out what to do, looking for the way out, the needle in his haystack of bills.

**xXx**

Peter closed his eyes and hit the cue ball. The pool balls scattered across the table, and he listened as his senses tracked which ones went where. Without opening his eyes, he walked around the table, lined up, and fired again. The bumpers paffed with the impact of the hard pool balls, and Peter kept each ball distinct as his senses tracked by sound and vibration. He half smiled to himself. He could always shark people for money.

The door to the bar opened and closed, and the distinctive scuffle of boots headed his way. A short and very heavy man. Peter opened one eye.

"Logan," he said.

"Glad to see you, kid," Logan said, hefting his gym bag and putting it up on the counter.

"That your workout gear?" Peter asked wryly.

"Somethin like that," Logan nodded. He glanced at the barkeep and nodded. The bartender got him a beer. "How's yer week goin?"

Peter chuckled. "I got turned down for financial aid next semester and almost expelled. Barely feel it at this point. On the bright side, my best friend's girl seems to have taken a shine to me after I got him in a car wreck. How about you?"

"I had a great day," Logan said, leaning back against the bar. The bartender brought him his beer, and Logan tipped his hat.

"I'm tired of this game," Peter muttered. He fired the cue ball at the side of the table; it smacked into one, two, three balls, and they caromed across the table in their own course. Five seconds, and the last ball on the table slowly rolled and tipped into the corner pocket. Only the cue ball was left on a field of green.

Peter rolled it to the corner, where it rattled down. He turned to face Logan.

Logan had his back to Peter. He unzipped the gym bag as he swung it around and put it on the table. For a long moment, he looked into Peter's eyes. Peter looked back; what was Logan thinking? It was impossible to tell.

The short hairy man reached into the bag and pulled out a crisp packet of fifty dollar bills. He put it on the table, then looked at Peter with a wild grin lurking in his eye. He pulled out another packet. Another.

"There must be thousands there," Peter said, trying not to gasp.

"Aw, hell," Logan said. He upended the bag, and with heavy thuds the packets of bills cascaded down into a chaotic, sliding pyramid.

Peter stared, his face drained of color.

"Three hundred thousand dollars," Logan said with a nod. "Should cover it, doncha think?" With a very satisfied grin, he tucked a cigar into the corner of his mouth.

"I… I can't take this," Peter managed.

"It's all legal," Logan shrugged. "Ahem." He put his hand up to highlight the words: "The Anthony Stark Meritous Scholar Award. Three hundred thousand dollars. All yours, kid." He slapped Peter on the back.

"Logan," Peter said, visibly struggling, "I can't take this kind of charity. This is… this is a lot of money."

Logan's expression darkened. "Kid, you think this is charity?" he said. "Look at me." Peter looked at him.

Logan stared him in the eye, just one step from fierce in that moment. "First time I met you," he said, putting a thick finger up, "you saved me from a fate worse than death and you didn't even know who I was. First time you met Stark, you kept him from being killed in his armor in the middle of his complex. And to date, neither one of us has had a proper chance to thank you." Logan looked away and lit his cigar. "Now I'm not sayin this is adequate repayment for such things as you've done. But I _am _sayin," he said, looking Peter in the eye, "this is _not _charity. Stark an me think more of our lives than that." His eyebrows lowered menacingly. "Only two words can come outa yer mouth that won't make me need to smack you."

"Thank you," Peter said softly.

"Thosr them," Logan said with a curt nod. "I gotta go. Bag's complimentary. Sides, you think Stark's gonna even _feel_ this loss? I bet he's got this much just in one of his pillows." He grinned at Peter, slapped him on the back, and flicked a five dollar bill on the counter. Then he jogged out of the bar, chuckling to himself.

Peter watched him go, speechless.

He looked down at the money and let the idea grow in him, the idea that it was all his to do with as he pleased, no strings attached, money he _earned_. As the spider ghost, no less.

A grin welled up in him that just wouldn't be stopped.

He swiftly packed and headed out into the night.


	24. Wealth

**Wednesday, November 27**

As dawn crept up the horizon, Peter flicked bill after bill into the mail box. When the whole stack was in, he leaned back and cut loose with a howl of pure joy.

A huge weight lifted from him. He knew for sure that if he let go of the ground he might fly up and never come down. He grinned and went jogging.

Less than an hour later, he found himself on campus strolling into the financial aid office.

Look, ma, no line. He sauntered right up to the counter. "Top of the morning, ladies," he said with a smooth grin. "Tell ya what. Let's get me squared away for next semester."

The lady behind the desk smiled at him. "Certainly. What's your name?"

"Peter Parker," he said. He smiled at her. She tapped at her keyboard for a while.

Her expression clouded. "I'm afraid your paperwork has come through, yesterday," she said. She looked up at him. "Your aid was denied."

"Of course it was," he said, unflappable. "So how about we just, oh, pay off the last semester of my college education with some _cold, hard, **cash**_, scholarship be damned. How does that hit ya?" His smile grew almost unbearably wide.

Her eyes got very big indeed as he whipped out five stacks of fifty dollar bills. "This enough? I got some more!" he said, shaking his bag and barely restraining a laugh.

Half an hour later that was sorted out and he was moving crosstown at a speedy, weightless jog. He closed in on the hospital, and found his way to Aunt May's room.

"Aunt May!" he said as he strolled in. She looked up at him, tired and pale, but she tried to smile.

"I have some great news for you, Aunt May," Peter said, slinging his bag to the ground and sitting on the chair by the bed. "I won the Anthony Stark Meritous Scholar award! Three hundred _thousand_ dollars!" He beamed. "I got it all now. The house, the hospital, college, you name it we're covered. Isn't that great news!?"

Her eyes got very large and her fluttering hand reached for his wrist. "Peter, can it be true?" she said.

"Oh yeah," he said. "I'm going to get you the best medical care money can buy."

"Oh, _Peter_," she said, leaning forward and pulling him into a hug. "I knew others would someday recognize how great you are."

Just then the doctor walked in. Peter grinned at him. "Hey doc, do I have some news for you," he said. "Happy Thanksgiving!"

**xXx**

Peter knocked on the doorway. Beck looked up from his work and smiled. "How's it going?" he said.

"I'm early, that okay?"

"Sure," Beck said, gesturing to the chair. "How's it been, these past couple days."

"Like I hit the bottom of the hill on the rollercoaster and got fired through a loop," Peter said with a grin as he moved down into the chair. "I just won the Anthony Stark Meritous Scholar award. Three hundred _thousand_ dollars. They say money can't buy happiness. Well, they're probably right. But as of this moment I have _got_ to be one of the happiest guys on the planet." Peter was beaming. "Money can't buy you love. But hell, it sure does help on Valentines day. Ha _ha!_ Just in time for Thanksgiving. And boy am I. Thankful, that is. And giving. My aunt is gonna be out of debt, I got next semester covered, you are looking at a guy who went from the bottom to the top fast enough that his head is _still _spinning!"

Beck blinked.

Opened his mouth.

Shut it, tried on a smile.

"That's _great_ news, Peter!" he said with a grin.

Just had to be Stark. Damn. Beck wondered if he knew about the rest of what was going on. Maybe Fisk didn't need to know about this just yet. "Hey, Peter, mind if we do the session anyway?"

"Sure," Peter shrugged. "I've got some time before my last class of the day, and I'm in an easy mood. Hit me, doc."

"I've put together a few questions this time," Beck said wryly. "Okay, let's start at the top. Tell me a little about your family; brothers, sisters, parents, that sort of thing." He leaned back, desperately thinking. Time, he needed time. He felt his plan coming apart at the seams, unraveling, and his mind raced trying to figure out how to salvage the situation.

"I don't have any of the above," Peter shrugged. "I was raised by my aunt and uncle, they were childless and I was an only child. My parents were killed in a plane crash. Before my parents left they asked my aunt and uncle to take care of me; when they agreed, they figured it was for the duration when they got the news." Peter sighed. "My aunt and uncle missed having a child of their own, so I was welcome. I still live with my Aunt May, actually."

"What about your uncle?" Beck asked. Please. Please have a trauma you need help with. Sympathy alone won't get me close enough, Beck thought. The beginnings of a plan began to form in his mind.

"Uncle Ben," Peter said, his face troubled. He looked out the window. "Uncle Ben was a good man, like a father to me. A mugger killed him when I was barely in my teens. Uncle Ben's head was bashed in by a pipe for a wallet that didn't have anything in it. He was worth a lot more to me alive than his wallet was to his killer."

Peter shook himself and looked at Beck. "Look, I'm adjusted," he said. "Everybody has trauma in their lives. I was having some trouble coping because of money and the stress from not having any. Otherwise I'm a normal, healthy, balanced young adult."

"If you're healthy and well adjusted, you're not a normal young adult," Beck said wryly. "But I can take a hint." He smiled at Peter. "I'm relieved to hear about your good news. I was worried about you, actually. That's why I made you promise to come today. I'm glad to see that a little good news hasn't made you forget your promises. I'll tell the dean you're over it." He smiled.

Peter cocked his head to the side. "Thank you," he said in a faintly surprised voice.

As Beck's smile grew, the screen saver kicked in on the computer screen behind him. Shifting colors and patterns…

"Hey, that's a neat screen saver," Peter said, then his gaze was drawn into it and he sat absolutely still, slack jawed.

Beck thrust himself out of his chair and knelt at Peter's knee. "You will have trouble sleeping," he intoned, his voice low and fast. "A dark secret from your past has begun to plague you. If only you could talk to Beck about it, everything would be okay." He paused. "When you awaken, you will have no memory of this or the screen saver." Beck pushed himself up and back, and as he landed in his seat he nudged the mouse with his elbow. The screen saver shut off.

Peter blinked.

"So we're done?" he said.

"Hey," Beck said with a warm smile. "Careful celebrating. You have a great day."

Peter grinned at him and was gone.

Beck let out a deep breath, glanced at his computer, and swore softly to himself. Now what? He closed his eyes and started thinking through Plan B.

**xXx**

The elevator opened, and Peter stepped out of the mirrored box into the plush hallway. He glanced around, sniffed the air, shivered. The Osborn complex. He walked down the hallway and pushed the doorbell next to the ornate wooden door.

A moment later the door opened, and a thin woman looked at him. "Yes?" she said. "No solicitors," she added.

"No, no, I'm Peter Parker. I was Harry's roommate. I was hoping he was in," Peter said.

"Come in," she said tonelessly, glancing at his clothes. He stepped in, and she closed the door. "Please wait here," she said. Then she headed into the depths of the huge apartment.

Peter glanced around at the chandelier, the deep carpet, the wood paneling on the wall, the baby grand. He realized that the furnishings of this room would approach if not cover the cost of buying Aunt May's house.

The housekeeper returned. "Please follow me," she said. Peter followed her through a few corridors, then to a double door. She opened it and stepped in. "Mister Osborn, it's Peter Parker." Then she glanced at Peter and left.

Peter stepped into the loft. It was twice as tall as a normal room, and skylights angled down one side of the ceiling. A vast television played quietly to itself at one end of the room, and Harry sprawled on the couch in front of it.

"Harry?" Peter said. Harry glanced over.

"Hey," he said tonelessly. "What's up."

Peter saw that Harry was watching Jerry Springer. "Just thought I'd drop by, see how you're doing."

"Fine," Harry said. "Better than ever."

"Cool," Peter said, walking into Harry's field of vision without blocking his view of the television. Pinball machines, arcade games, a waterbed, bunk bed, balcony… Peter still struggled to come to grips with the room. It was about the size of his house. "Is MJ around?"

Harry almost chuckled. "Not at the moment. She'll turn up," he said.

"Yeah," Peter said. "Ookay, Harry, it was good to see you. Happy Thanksgiving, man," he added, trying for eye contact and not getting it. "If you need anything," though Peter couldn't imagine what he could need, "you have my number at Aunt May's, right?"

"Yeah," Harry said.

"I can show myself out," Peter said.

Harry waved in his direction.

Peter backed away, then walked out of the cavernous room, down the hallways. He brushed at his face with his sleeve. Damn. He felt a burning in his chest.

"I've lost Harry,"he whispered to himself.

He stepped into the elevator and let it take him all the way down.

**xXx**

Peter opened the door and walked into the quiet house. That stop at the bank had finished off a perfectly bizarre day. He dropped to the couch and lay there for a long, long moment. His eyes drifted closed and he listened to the clock tick, to the stillness. He let out a long breath and found himself totally drained.

"I'm home," he murmured.

A few minutes later he got up and headed for the stairs when the answering machine caught his eye. He stepped over to where it flashed and pushed the button.

eep "Peter, this is MJ. Uh, turns out my family has decided to have this big get together _thing_ and I have to go. So… I'll be in Florida for a few days. So take care, okay? Give Aunt May some turkey, ya big lug. And… um… I guess that's it." eep

Peter sighed and quietly bonked his head against the wall. "So if Harry decides to shoot me," he says, "maybe I won't dodge."

That night, Peter's dreams were haunted, shallow, and restless…


	25. Thanksgiving

Thursday, September 28. Thanksgiving 

It was almost noon when Peter knocked, peeking into the hospital room.

"Hello, Peter," Aunt May said warmly. He grinned and stepped in, a picnic basket in his hand.

"How are you doing today?" Peter asked.

"Oh, I was just laying here counting my blessings," Aunt May said as she manipulated the control on the bed to sit up. "What do you have there?"

"Thanksgiving feast," Peter said. He put a lap desk up on her bed, then a plate and a knife and a fork. Then he unwrapped, with great ceremony, the aluminum foil. Within was a turkey leg.

"Oh Peter," she said with a small laugh. "But where's yours?"

"I ate the rest of the turkey in the car, on the way over," Peter said as he sat down by the bed. "Okay, it's not really a feast, but I thought it'd put the shine on the day for you."

She picked up the knife and fork and daintily sawed at the meat, cutting off small pieces and cutting around the tendons and gristle and other obstacles in the leg. "Mm," she said. "This is quite good."

"I'm glad," Peter said. "The guy at the store assured me this was a feisty bird who spent his whole life trying to get tasty." He shook his head. "I don't know about those guys at the store."

"Well, what other plans do you have for today?" Aunt May asked.

"I figured I'd balance the national budget, graduate from college, and run off and join the circus. Course, that doesn't leave much for the afternoon," he said with a shrug.

She returned her attention to her turkey leg. "Peter Parker, you're impossible," she said.

"Don't I know it," he murmured to himself. He felt suddenly weary; his haunted night was catching up to him. "Tell you what," he said. "You finish that thing off and I'm sure the nurses will be more than willing to take it off your hands." He grinned.

"Are you off?" she asked.

He sighed. "I gotta find a nurse, then I'll be on my way. You take it easy today, Aunt May. Get better, okay?"

"I'm working on it," she said with a sage nod. He stood, smiled, and patted her hand. Then he left the room. After a few minutes of searching, he found a nurse.

"Hello," he said. "My name is Peter Parker, I'm May Parker's nephew. I was just wondering if they've scheduled her surgery yet."

The nurse checked her listings. "Hm," she said. "Looks like it's scheduled for next week." She looked up at him.

"Thanks," he said, and he felt a little dizzy with relief. "Thank you very much."

He went home.

**xXx**

Peter closed the door behind himself and only then did he notice the quiet. It hummed in his ears. He felt the house expanding around him, the small building becoming empty and vast.

Peter shook his head. "Holidays," he said to himself. He walked over to the answering machine. No message but the one Mary Jane left. He picked up the phone. "Talk to somebody," he muttered. "Wish them a happy Thanksgiving."

He punched in Dr. Strange's number. After a number of rings, eep "You have reached the Sanctum of Doctor Strange. I am unavailable this weekend, but your duty is to leave a message worthy of my attention." eep.

Peter hung up instead of leaving a message. He thought for a moment and then mashed in Logan's number. eep "Not here, somewhere else, call later. Bye." eep.

"Can't these people have normal answering machine messages?" Peter mused. He stopped himself before he called Mary Jane. She was in Florida.

"Fine," Peter said, and before he could change his mind he punched in the Stacey's number.

It rang for a while before the answering machine picked up. "This is the Stacey residence," the retired police captain's voice said, and Peter hung up before he could hear the rest.

"They _would_ have a normal message," Peter grumbled. Then he thought over his list of friends once more.

He punched in one last number.

The phone rang twice. "Ramsey residence," came a clear voice on the other end.

"Doug, hey, this is Peter," he said. "I was wondering if you had your Thanksgiving feast yet."

"You caught me on the way out the door," Doug said. "Why?"

"I was just wondering if you wanted some company is all."

"Sure," Doug said easily. "The more the merrier. Chinese okay?"

"For Thanksgiving?" Peter said a bit doubtfully.

Doug chuckled. "They won't be crowded," he said. "If you're interested, I'm headed out to the Super China Wok Bar and Grill, you know the place?"

"Oh yeah," Peter said. "I'll meet you there."

**xXx**

The restaurant wasn't crowded, but it wasn't deserted either. Peter immediately spotted Doug, sitting in a booth with a baseball cap on and hunched in his coat.

Peter sat down opposite him. "How's it going?" he said.

"It's Thanksgiving," Doug sighed. "I hate Thanksgiving."

"Really?" Peter said. "Why?"

"You gonna get some food?" Doug asked, amused.

"Hold that thought," Peter grinned. A minute later he slid into the booth with a stacked, steaming plate of dumplings and rice and noodles all melting across each other. "What's the matter with Thanksgiving?"

"Disregarding the pilgrim feast, where they took advantage of the local generosity to survive so they could eventually spread like a disease across the surface of the land and build places like, you know, New York on what used to be beautiful wilds. Forget about that. I don't care about that one way or the other so much." Doug rubbed his pale eyes with his hand; he looked like he had rolled out of bed and dressed and come straight to the restaurant.

"You know what I really hate about Thanksgiving? People know they should be grateful. I mean, the United States of America has five percent of the world's population, and twenty five percent of its wealth. There's a reason to be thankful. But people have to have a holiday to remind them, because their default setting is to whine and complain, no matter how much they have. You don't have enough until you decide you have enough. I've actually heard people sniveling about how their stock options aren't performing as well as they'd like and they're unhappy because in these tight times they might have to cancel their cruise to Alaska. Meanwhile the guy two seats down is trying to figure out how he's going to cover his rent this month, and he's grateful he's not been shot on the way to the subway by a guy called Snake that he owes money to." Doug leaned back.

"Really Thanksgiving isn't as bad as Christmas." Doug shuddered. "You go out and see these tight eyed working executive mothers with their bags of pricey purchases and their hard, desperate voices, piling gifts and home improvements on credit cards that their salaries barely allow them to afford, families that can't buy food scraping together enough funding to purchase a console system for their five kids, not all of whom have fitting shoes, so they can play video games. Thanksgiving is a stab at being grateful for what we have before we blow it all on Christmas."

Doug kept talking, but Peter tuned him out. Lonely people get really depressing on holidays, he remembered a little too late. Not just a catchy truism. He looked at Doug, who was off on some commercialism against spirit kick, talking about cartoons and something about Dickens. Guess money can't buy _everything_, he reflected. Note to self. Get Doug a little optimism for Christmas.

Half an hour later Peter thanked Doug for a good lunch, paid for both their meals, and struck out into the rainy, blustery afternoon. As Peter walked down the street, his mind cast itself forward, thinking of that evening, sleeping in the house alone again. He already felt nightmares building. He gritted his teeth. "Why now?" he muttered. "I'm through the worst of it, right? Besides, there's nobody left to call."

His mind paused. "What?" Peter said. Well, there is Beck. He's from out of town. Might not have anyone to wish him holiday cheer.

"Well," Peter said to himself, "it's a thought." He headed back to his house.

After he strolled in the front door he took the stairs in a bound and was in his room. He sat in his chair, and turned on his computer.

What felt like an hour later the computer was finished booting up and he had managed to coax his dial-up internet connection to find some server in the great beyond to connect with. He went to the school web site, the faculty lists, scrolled down. There. Beck. Peter scribbled his phone number on a scrap of paper and got offline.

The phone rang twice. "Beck," came the voice on the other end.

"Mister Beck, this is Peter," he said, feeling really awkward.

"Peter, hello," Beck said, sounding surprised. "What can I do for you?"

"I just called to wish you a happy Thanksgiving," Peter said, feeling a little stupid.

"Your timing is great," Beck said. "I ended up with too much turkey. If you're not busy this afternoon, I sure could use some help disposing of it. You up for a little feast demolition?

Peter hesitated fractionally. Then, "Sure. Where do you live?"


	26. Hypnotized

Peter picked up the phone. He was ready to punch in a number for a cab when a gust of wind rattled the window. He slowly turned.

The afternoon was breathing. The lowering sky tossed fistfuls of rain down at the glass and steel and concrete of the city. The trees were whistling with wind. It was dim, and those with business that took them outside scurried along with their eyes fixed on the pavement.

_A fine day for flying._

"We agreed we aren't doing that anymore," Peter said to himself sternly.

_We? More like you agreed_, he thought_. Don't drag me into your prudish decision making. If it's not 'we' when I decide to get Tandy Bowen in a web with me, then it's not 'we' when you decide to stick to the ground._

Peter struggled.

Thought of the danger.

The risk.

Then the wind thrummed against the window again.

_That's opportunity knocking._

Peter caved. Five minutes later he was in his mesh and airborne. Releasing his web, he sailed through the dimness of the blustery afternoon upside down, whizzing through the sky, his mind whirling across the city around and below him and mapping out contact points, routes, casual as breathing.

"Wahoooo!" he couldn't resist saying as he fired web, felt his half forgotten sacs punch out the stream, felt it bow with the push of the wind before slapping home. His arc flattened sideways and he was hissing along over traffic, faster than traffic, and he fired out another hissing stream. The web hit and contracted, its elasticity tugging him through the air even faster as he aimed for more distant targets, his senses in high gear keeping him intact as he ghosted above an oblivious city.

Peter Parker felt alive.

He dropped down on the roof of the condo that Beck had directed him to. He stripped down, folded his mesh to a flat black patch he adhered to the small of his back. Then he dressed in his civvies and dropped off the roof. He saw Beck's button, pushed it, the door clicked and he went in.

A minute later he was knocking on Beck's door. It was opened a moment later, and Beck stood there. He smiled at Peter, "Come on in," he said. He was wearing khakis and a turtleneck, he had a glass of wine in one hand. The whole place smelled of turkey and stuffing.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Peter said as he stepped in. He felt suddenly awkward. He glanced around.

The condo was comfortable; not wealthy, but well off. Indirect lighting was the order of the day, and the furniture looked more comfortable than showy.

"Hey, you're a young man, that means you know about electronics," Beck said as he headed towards the kitchen. "Would you see if you can get the DVD player hooked up? I've had a hell of a time with it," he said.

"Sure," Peter shrugged, relieved to have something useful to do. He went over to where the television was cranked around, wires dangling from it's backside. He took one look and his senses knew what went where. He got busy with it.

In the ten seconds it took him to figure it out and put everything back in place, Beck came out of the kitchen with a plate full of food. "This is for you," he said, "and I'll have some pecan pie. Never could stand pumpkin."

"Fair enough," Peter grinned.

"I don't have a real table, so we'll get cultural and eat like the Japanese," Beck said, tossing Peter a cushion. Then he headed to the kitchen to get his dessert as Peter settled in and got started on the turkey and stuffing and mashed potato. He listened for a second to the classical music playing softly in the background. Vivaldi. Huh.

Beck sat down and made himself comfortable. "You've saved me from a long evening of reading," he said wryly. "I don't even have papers to grade, how about that? It's nice to have some life and color." He had another mouthful, disposed of it, and continued. "I'm from Michigan, and I don't have any family there I care to visit. How about you?"

"Oh, I'm from New York," Peter said, "I live with my Aunt. She's in the hospital."

"That's right," Beck said, nodding thoughtfully. "How is she doing?"

"A lot better," Peter said, nodding. "Her surgery is scheduled for next week."

"That must be a relief," Beck said.

"You can say that again," Peter nodded. "I was really worried. She was touch and go there for a minute. I guess she got her prescriptions confused and took the wrong thing at the wrong time and it was just too much for her."

"That's an easy mistake to make," Beck shrugged. "I am lucky not to be on any medications. Scary stuff, drugs." He looked at Peter again. "You look beat."

"I didn't sleep so good last night," Peter said, looking down at his plate. "Bad dreams, I guess."

"I used to have trouble sleeping," Beck said. "That's what got me interested in self-hypnosis."

"Really?" Peter said.

"Sure," Beck said easily. "Do you know what's troubling you?"

"Well, you know," Peter said uneasily. "Stuff. I don't know."

"Ah," Beck said, nodding sagely. He shrugged. "Well, the offer's open. I'll hypnotize you if you want, make it easier for you to sleep. I took an oath, you know, that I can not reveal what I find out from a hypnotized person if I don't have permission."

"Really?" Peter said.

"Mm," nodded Beck as he took a drink from his wine glass.

"I've never been hypnotized before," Peter reflected. Beck smiled to himself.

"I know it's a scary prospect if you've never done it before," Beck conceded. "Put it from your mind."

Peter looked thoughtfully at the table. "So you could put in, like, what, a suggestion to help me sleep better?"

"Something like that," Beck said with a nod. "A post hypnotic suggestion that when you get into your bed you go right to sleep."

"Sounds like it's worth a try," Peter said, raising his eyes to meet Beck's.

"Really?" Beck said, raising his eyebrows. "If you're not comfortable with it—"

"Hey, I'm still a young man prone to rash decisions," Peter grinned. "Let's give it a whirl."

"Okay," Beck said. He rolled to his feet and padded into the back room, returning with a pocket watch a moment later. He shrugged and grinned. "Nostalgia, I guess. I like using pocket watches." Beck settled in before Peter. "Okay. Watch the pocket watch. Listen to the sound of my voice." Beck tapped the watch, setting it to swinging. "You are watching the pocket watch. You feel your eyelids grow heavy. You are getting sleepy. You are sinking into the sleep that is not sleep." After about thirty seconds, Beck satisfied himself that Peter was hypnotized.

Beck turned on the tape recorder and put it on the table. "How did you get your powers?" he said.

"I don't know," Peter said slowly.

Beck nodded to himself. "When did you get them?"

"Nineteen ninety two," Peter said. "I was in a coma for months in nineteen ninety one. I failed fifth grade."

"Did you have an accident?"

"No accident," Peter mumbled. "Poison. I opened a trunk in the attic. It had a puzzle box. I solved the puzzle box. A spider bit me." He paused. "Grandpa died in World War II. It was his trunk."

Beck nodded. "How did your uncle die?" he said.

Peter turned his head, looked Beck right in the eye with a look that sent cold shivers racing up and down Beck's spine.

"We don't want to talk about that right now," he said in a low, tight voice. He was terrifyingly alert, aware in spite of the hypnosis.

Beck said, "When I snap my fingers, you will awaken and forget the entirety of our conversation. Do you understand?" He snapped off the tape recorder and slipped it in the drawer on the coffee table.

Peter looked ahead again, his eyes glazing over. "I understand."

Beck snapped his fingers. Then he finished off his glass of wine.

Peter shook his head. "I feel woozy," he said. "What did you find out?"

"Not much," Beck shrugged. "However, you should be able to sleep now." Beck smiled at him. "Seems you didn't have much you needed to talk about after all."

Peter smiled with poorly concealed relief. "Okay then. Well, it's been great you hosting me and all, but I gotta get going."

"You have a good evening," Beck said, rising and walking him to the door.

"You too. Thanks," Peter said with a nonspecific shrug.

"Forget about it," Beck said. "Don't be a stranger." Then Peter was gone, and Beck leaned against the door.

"Curioser and curiouser," he murmured to himself, and he smiled an altogether less pleasant smile.


	27. Preempted

**Friday, November 29**

Peter jolted awake at noon, gasping. He rolled out of bed and stood in the middle of the room, blinking at the sunlight that poured into the room through his windows. Clock. It's noon. Okay, senses. What woke me up?

"And how the hell did I sleep until noon?" Peter muttered, squinting and completely disoriented.

He checked back along his senses and didn't find anything out of place, just cloudy dreams… with Uncle Ben in them.

Peter stood catching his breath, and he realized that he never thought about Uncle Ben anymore. He felt a moment of shame. "Maybe this is because Beck brought him up," Peter said to himself, leaning against the wall and looking out the window. "Maybe I repressed Uncle Ben's memory so deep…" He stirred, then quickly dressed and left the house.

**xXx**

Peter smiled fondly down at Aunt May. She was sleeping peacefully, so he let her. He kissed her gently on the forehead, and left the flowers he had brought on the small table by the bed. Then he quietly took his leave.

He was walking away from the hospital when he spotted a pay phone. He fumbled in his pockets; no change left. He did, however, have a five dollar bill. He saw a news vendor and grinned.

"One of the Planetary please, my good man," he said. The vendor handed him a copy of the glossy tabloid. Peter gave him the five and got enough back to make two pay phone calls. He tucked the magazine under his arm and went to the pay phone.

"Damn cell phones," he muttered. "These things are harder to find all the time." He slotted in his cash and called the switchboard at school. "Beck, please," he said. "Quentin Beck."

The call rang through. "Beck here."

"Hey, this is Peter," he said. "You got a minute?"

"I was just headed out to play some racquetball, but sure, I got a minute."

"Hey, do you have a partner?"

"I usually find somebody at the gym," Beck said.

"I'm no slouch at racquetball myself," Peter said. "Want a partner?"

"Sure," Beck said. "That'd be great."

"I have to swing by my house," Peter said, "so I should be there in about half an hour. Just meet you at the gym."

"Sounds good," said Beck.

"Later," Peter said, and he hung up and jogged to beat the bus to its stop.

**xXx**

Beck dribbled the ball a little, breathing deep, sweat gathered on his face. He glanced over at Peter.

"You _are_ good at this," he said. He tossed the ball up and thwacked it into play. Peter dove for it, with a shout he barely managed to return it. Beck slammed it off the back wall and over Peter's prone form.

"Good show!" Peter said, clambering to his feet. "I think I need a breather."

"Fair enough," Beck said. He tucked the ball in his pocket and leaned back against the wall while Peter squatted, catching his breath.

"Last night," Beck said, examining his racquet's strings for signs of strain, "I dreamed I was the Pharaoh and I was presiding over the knighting of a C.E.O. in Cairo. For the buffet afterwards we had Volkswagens stuffed with cabbage." He shook his head with a faint smile. "I would _love_ to know where _that_ came from."

"I dreamed about my Uncle Ben," Peter said in a subdued voice. He shook his head. "That's really unusual for me."

"Well," Beck said, "frequently, repressed anger or mourning are pushed out of the conscious mind. They're too powerful to overcome that way. They find the front door locked, so they just come in the back door." He mopped his face with his towel. "Ghosts we make for ourselves," he said softly.

"So how do you get rid of them?" Peter asked, looking him in the eye.

"Confront them," Beck said.

"How, if they're subconscious?" Peter asked. "Sock them in my dream?"

"No," Beck said, shaking his head. "Beating them down is how they got in your dream in the first place. I would say hypnosis would give you the best chance of facing them directly."

"Sounds like that's your answer for everything," Peter said wryly.

"Hey," Beck said, spreading his hands, "to a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail. It's what I know. So I'm a one trick pony. So sue me." He grinned.

"You know," Peter said, "you're in pretty good shape for an egghead."

"The mind is in the body," Beck said sagely. "For an academic, you stay in pretty good shape."

"Youth is wasted on the young," Peter grinned. "Now if we're through trading chestnuts, maybe you could finish beating me so I can go home?"

**xXx**

Beck kicked the door open and strode in fuming as the rebound slammed the door behind him. He dropped his gym bag on the open expanse of floor as he headed towards the back. Grummins and Wylde peered at him from the balcony.

"Trouble at work?" Wylde said.

"I've gotten close, and gotten close fast," Beck said as he approached. "But that damned Stark scholarship screwed everything up. We're going to have to take a more concrete approach before he totally loses interest in Quentin Beck, Academic on Sabbatical. It's a good thing he's a hero. It's time to go with plan b," he said, walking over to his workbench and picking up his helmet. For a long moment he looked at his reflection in the glassy fishbowl. Then he looked up at Grummins and Wylde.

"Grummins," he said. "Wait until it gets dark, then go trash my office at the school. Be sure to steal the computer, I'll need it here and undamaged."

"What about me?" Wylde said.

"You're his getaway driver," Beck smiled.

"What about you?" Grummins said.

"I'll be setting the stage for our final run of performances," Beck said, his thoughts far distant as his scheming worked itself out.

**xXx**

Dusk was settling as Peter unlocked the front door and walked in. The house was still empty. Peter wondered if the Uncle Ben feelings he'd been getting were normally absorbed by Aunt May and found him instead while she was gone. He shivered at the thought. Maybe this would be a good night to go out…

He jogged up the stairs and tossed his gear on the bed. He sat in his desk chair for a moment, thoughtful. Who to call?

"I'm not up for another round of holiday cheer with Doug," he muttered. "Too dangerous to go exercising. I can't deal with Aunt May right now. The Staceys?" He shook his head. "How about no." How about Tandi?

"You and your 'lure her into my webs' business. A grown spider ghost like you. Should be ashamed," Peter said to himself, grinning. "See, you'd just want to try to seduce her. I'd have to explain why I ditched her at the party. So no."

Prude.

Peter chuckled as he kicked off his shoes. "We'll just have to see what's on the Sci Fi Channel," he said.

Just then he felt a tug on his senses. He stopped, suddenly wary. Waited, sifting his senses, for the thing that didn't belong.

Smoke. He smelled smoke. But not smoke from a fire? Peter's forehead creased. "Good thing I'm a science major," he muttered. Then he realized the two fire extinguishers in the house were in the basement and the kitchen.

"So I'm unarmed," he shrugged. He crept to the top of the stairs, completely silent.

A wisp of smoke like incense drifted from the kitchen. Peter dropped over the banister, landing without a sound. He cautiously peered around the corner into the kitchen—

Smoke mist billowed around him suddenly before he could entirely figure out its source. His senses wildly groped at the shifting and insubstantial currents of smoke that tugged and whirled around him, they kicked into overdrive and he gasped and jumped back.

As he did, he tasted the narcotic smoke in his throat and with a desperate panic he realized he was being drugged.

_"You will leave Beck alone," _intoned a voice from the billowing smoke, _"or you will suffer deeply."_

The room spun counter to the spinning of the smoke, and Peter felt nausea welling up as his senses explored fully the effects of the narcotics. Then Peter saw a flare of green, suffusing the mist, and a skull floated in the chaos.

He staggered forward and slung a punch at it, but a forearm whipped up and caught the punch. Steel edges bit deeply into Peter's knuckles, and the shrouded form did not move. Booming, hollow laughter echoed around him, and Peter staggered back and collapsed.

The mist slowly cleared over his motionless form.

Peter was alone.


	28. Rescue

**Saturday, November 10**

Peter woke up coughing. His bleary eyes struggled for focus, his spongy brain fought to interpret the clock hands into time. Two a.m. Damn.

Peter lay still for a moment just working on breathing. He was nauseous, dizzy, his head was splitting, and he had a crusted scab on his knuckles. Two a.m. If the gas put him down for almost eight hours, then it was pitched to kill a normal person. But the intruder had issued a warning.

The intruder must know he was capable of surviving a dose like that. How could he know Peter's senses were scrambled by smoke?

"Everybody's senses are scrambled by smoke, dingus," Peter muttered as he pulled himself into a chair.

"That. Sucked." Peter said. He levered himself up out of the chair, and the room tilted. Peter groaned. "Thirsty," he murmured. Indeed, his mouth and throat felt dry and parched, he could feel the strain of swallowing. Whatever that gas was, it had dried him out pretty severely.

He poured himself glass after glass of water, standing at the sink.

Then he stood there, weak and shaking, for a long moment.

"So let's go find out what's up with Beck," Peter said softly to himself.

Five minutes later he was in his mesh, his street clothes in a web bag. He slipped quietly out of the house and stole across the street, through their alley, then he let rip with a webline that tugged him off the ground, over a toolshed, under a tree. He felt the world spin at a slightly different angle than usual, and his speed was dulled. So he stuck to simple maneuvers, sure shots, and locked position swinging instead of going for flips and twirls.

"That gas really kicked my guts in," he murmured to himself. "Is this a good idea?"

_Oh, quit whining._

In twenty minutes he was stuck to the wall outside Beck's office window, looking around carefully. He slid the unlocked window open, and slithered inside.

"Looks like I'm too late," he said, looking around.

Books lay all over the floor, torn in two. Someone had broken and defaced the furniture with a crowbar. Chunks were gouged out of the wall. The bookshelves were tipped over and broken. The computer was missing. It looked like the room had been trashed by a sloppy treasure hunter who was very angry and not at all patient.

Peter got a cold feeling, surveying the wreckage. It looked like someone was _very_ angry at Beck. He ducked out the way he had come in.

Pushing himself a little more for speed, he swung towards Beck's condo.

"This is _much_ easier than ringing in," Peter said to himself as he crouched outside Beck's window. He peered in.

In the living room, Beck was tied to a chair, his head sagging, unconscious or dead. Peter's blood froze. He touched the window, adhered, and with a quick tug snapped the fragile lock. He slithered in, without sound, every sense alert. He eased the window shut behind himself.

"In what way," he thought to himself, "is this not a trap?" He put his bag of clothes to the side, and braced himself.

He sprang into the room, instantly aware of everything in it. As he whipped through the air, he caught a dim glint of light from the dark doorway to the kitchen and he heard the ripple of air as something was thrown into the room. He lined up with his webs to catch it on the bounce (incongruously, he noted it looked like a racquetball) when it exploded in the air.

A desperate squeal started at the very top of the human hearing range and soared higher; Peter's senses reeled and were driven back into his head as with a hammer. Red-hot splinters sprayed the room, and twirling mini-smoke-bombs scattered. The room was a cacophonous mess for Peter, but the neighbors just heard a pop and maybe a hiss or a whine.

Then a figure loomed out of the foul curling smoke-mist. Peter saw a reflective dome, a faceless helmet, and he struggled to ignore the distractions and react.

A greave was backhanded across the side of his head, tugging him over against his balance. He didn't hit the floor, he scrabbled around, and a metal bo staff hissed through the smoke, slamming the other side of his head and tumbling him against the wall. He bounded to his feet, less steady than he looked. The bar thrust through the smoke, registered a moment too late, and thudded hard into his gut.

Peter grabbed the staff, tugged it away, and tossed it into the wall. He lashed out, his attacker parried with those damned greaves; blood started on his wrist where his attacker slammed his blow out of the way.

Peter felt like he was moving underwater; his speed and strength were sapped by the drugs and his senses were screaming and distracting. He moved to grab the man with the bowl helmet, but he was evaded. A knee rammed up into his gut; the knee had flat blades on it, and the man tugged his knee to the side before darting back. Peter felt blood welling into cuts on his abdomen. He saw strips of mesh hanging off the man's knee.

Then the attacker lined up his wrists on Peter, who leaped out of the way as thick billowing fog roiled at him. He didn't need alert senses to guess that it was drugged. A door slammed as he rolled out of the way and scurried into the next room.

"I'll take 'suffer deeply' for two hundred," he said ruefully to himself. "Ow." He sprayed some web across the sliced flesh of his abdomen, bandaging the wound and repairing his mesh with a pale area.

"Great," he muttered. "Now they'll call me the 'Panda Ghost'."

He held his breath and ventured back into the living room. He opened all the windows. Then he untied Beck and laid him out on the couch.

Peter stepped into the next room, removed his mesh carefully (since he might need it again this night) and dressed himself. He returned to Beck, then went and got a glass of water.

"Come on now," he said, dabbing some on Beck's cheeks with a dishrag. He poured some water in Beck's mouth. "Wake up, now." Almost an afterthought, Peter sucked on his tongue and got some of his phermonal tracer material. He licked the rag, then dabbed it on Beck again. In case he should have to find him… New York was a big, big city.

As Beck slowly came around, Peter looked at the door and narrowed his eyes. Try that without the smoke next time…

**xXx**

They stopped at a stop light as Grummins finished unscrewing the helmet. He tossed it in the back seat. He was sitting on a heavy plastic seat cover that kept the blades on the suit from tearing up the car.

"That sucked," Grummins said. "I hate that suit. _You_ have to be Mysterio next time."

Wylde couldn't hold back the small burst of laughter. One glance at Grummins, and he dissolved into hysterical howling cackles.

"Har har har," Grummins muttered. "Can we get back to hq already?"


	29. Plan B

Beck sat, red eyed, swilling water while sitting on the couch. "I can't believe I'm so thirsty," he muttered.

"Yeah," Peter said. "It's something else, huh." He sat with the pitcher, keeping Beck supplied. "So who _was_ that clown?"

"That…" Beck said. Then he lowered his head. "I can't tell you, Peter. I don't dare bring you into this. It's just… too dangerous. There have been killings."

"I swear I'll help you," Peter said earnestly. "But you have to tell me more. Believe it or not, I'm pretty good at getting people out of trouble."

"You can't stop Mysterio," Beck said. "No one can. I can't… I can't have you on my conscience. I came here to get away, but…" He shrugged. "He found me again."

"Mysterio, huh," Peter said. "So what's his story?"

Beck heaved a deep sigh and put the wet washcloth over his forehead as he tilted his head back. "He was a very promising college student. His name doesn't matter now. I taught him hypnotism. We were good friends. He was a real wild child," Beck said with a rueful smile. "He got into being a stuntman for movies; leaping out of burning cars, getting beat up by martial artists, that sort of thing. Actually got punched by Arnold once."

"Wow," said Peter.

"Yeah. But then he realized it was a lot more fun to blow up cars than to leap out of cars that were blowing up. He learned the tricks of the trade for stunts and special effects. When computers came along they took a lot of the glory out of special effects. Why blow up an office building when you can realistically render it with a computer, right? So he turned his unique talents to finding a more exciting job than working on B movies that couldn't afford computers."

"Any idea who he's working for?" Peter asked softly, his eyes intense.

"None, assuming he's working for anyone at all," Beck said. "I came here from California to escape him. See, I'm in the witness protection program for something else, never mind that, and I've had to move twice because Mysterio keeps finding me."

"What does he want?" Peter asked. "Why does he follow you?"

"I know who he is," Beck said ruefully. "I guess when you live outside the rules, it's awkward having anyone else able to connect who you are on your days off and who you are when you're in the tights."

"I imagine it would be," Peter said tightly.

"Don't confront him, Peter," Beck warned, his eyes wary. "He's too strong. He has hypnotic powers, hyped up by machines he uses. He is much more powerful than I am as a hypnotist."

"Is there any protection against that?" Peter asked.

"Against hypnotism? Hm," Beck said. "What I do for myself is give myself a post-hypnotic suggestion to wake up if I get hypnotized. It's not much protection, and it only works for a few trances with diminishing effectiveness each time." He shrugged. "It's worth a shot, if you trust me to hypnotize you."

Peter sat lost in thought for a moment. Beck quietly waited.

"If Mysterio gets to me," Peter said slowly, "there's no telling what he might force me to do. I won't be worth your trust if my mind isn't my own," Peter said, looking Beck in the eye.

Beck heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. "Okay," he said. "Okay, here goes." He dug his pocket watch out of his pocket, set it to spinning, then rocked it gently back and forth at the end of its chain.

"You are getting very sleepy, with the sleep that is not sleep," he intoned gently. After thirty seconds, Peter Parker was hypnotized.

Beck drew in a deep breath, then let it out. "You are tired of being poor," he said. "You are tired of charity. The spider ghost can bring you wealth undreamed of. You will not rest until you have stolen the Ardesty diamond collection at 20th and Bleeker, out of the Hammond Diamond shop. These desires will surface in you with great strength after you hear the word 'milkrun'." Beck paused. "When I snap my fingers you will awaken with no conscious memory of these instructions."

He snapped his fingers.

Peter's eyes blinked and rolled half around, and he started in his chair.

"Promise me you won't confront Mysterio directly," Beck said, worried. "He's too tricky, too dangerous."

"I promise I won't if there's a better way," Peter said, shaking his head. "Sometimes the frontal assault is the only way."

"He'd trash you," protested Beck.

"Let me worry about that. You find a safe place and stay there. Okay?"

"Peter," Beck said, his eyes shining with unshed tears, "You're a good friend to me."

"I do try," Peter said with half a smile. "Do you have anywhere to go?"

"Mysterio already knows your place and mine. I'll just go check into a hotel."

Peter blinked. "What makes you think he knows my place?" he asked softly.

Beck smiled, and looked Peter in the eye. "He must have warned you off. Why else would you be hanging around my place at this god-forsaken hour in the morning, if not to come and see what that was all about? I've seen it before. Mysterio tries to keep me isolated."

Peter nodded. "Here's my number if you need help," Peter said, scribbling it on a scrap of paper from the kitchen. "Don't hesitate to call. Traffic can slow things up some, so sooner is better than later if it's an emergency."

"Okay," Beck said. "Good luck, Peter."

"You too," Peter said. "We'll nail this Mysterio guy.

"I sure hope so," Beck said softly, and he waved as Peter walked out the door.

Peter checked his watch as he cleared the outside door of the condo. Three thirty a.m. Damn. He ducked into the bushes and rapidly stripped, tugging on his mesh and stowing his clothes in the web bag. Then he fired a webline and popped free of the brush, flying through the air, fighting nausea and fatigue. And he was thirsty again.

A truck rumbled down the street below, and Peter gratefully landed on it and sat, catching his breath. Gas. He hated gas.

He got to thinking as the truck rolled along the way he wanted to go. His senses were uneasy, and he followed the tugging threads back, the buzzing feel of a fly in a web. What? Something about the truck?

People don't always know when they've been hypnotized. Peter snapped his fingers.

"I've fought Mysterio twice," he murmured. "Did he hypnotize me?" Peter felt suddenly cold as he realized Mysterio could have told him to kill Beck on command and he wouldn't know it until he did the deed.

The doubt was intolerable. "Only one man I know that can help me with this," Peter muttered as he fired a webline that tugged him off the truck. "Only one man. Which is a real shame." Peter swung towards Greenwich Village. "I just hope the Doctor is in…"

Time and distance passed, but Peter was lost in his brooding as his savaged senses struggled to choose him a path of least resistance. After a time, he found the roof of the mansion.

Peter sat by the peculiar skylight and waited. Less than five minutes passed when the front door creaked open. He dropped to the sidewalk, and padded inside the brownstone mansion tucked in a line with a dozen other brownstone mansions.

In the dimness of the entryway, Peter looked around uncertainly. "Strange, you here?" he asked.

"I am," came a voice that rolled gently from the shadows all around Peter. He saw Strange standing at the landing of the stairs, moonlight picking half his face from shadow. "Welcome. It is… early. What do you require?"

**xXx**

"Yes," Beck said into the phone, "I've got a contingency plan in place. Tell Fisk that when I give the word, Parker will rob Hammond Diamonds, going for the Ardesty collection. That will be your chance to catch him, as a legitimate businessman and he's the robber. That will put Fisk in a position to either be generous or to blackmail, either way could give more leverage dealing with Parker. I hope to finish this up, soon, my way, but if I somehow fail then that's the backup plan. When does Fisk get back?"

He nodded. "Not much time then. Thanks." He hung up.

"How's the office?" Grummins asked with a grin.

"I wish Parker would quit spoiling my clever plans, that's what I think," Beck said, collapsing on a battered old couch on the loft. "This should have been wrapped up by now."

"What's the plan, boss?" Grummins asked.

"There's only one man who can protect Beck from Mysterio," Beck said softly, "And that's Wilson Fisk." He shook his head. "Wheels within wheels, Grummins. I've got a lot of different ways I can spin this. And a lot of what happens next depends on the spider ghost. One way or another I'll pull him in to Fisk's power. And if _that_ doesn't work, then Quentin Beck will turn up dead. Parker will find out who did it. He'll do something clever to them; of course, it was a rival crime boss. Fisk will approach him directly or through another agent. The dance continues. The question is, will Beck's body be a fake I create or the real deal courtesy of Fisk?"

Beck looked over at Grummins. "Mysterio _must_ remain an enigmatic boogyman that Parker isn't confident he can beat." He paused. "Even if it is little old me."

"Hey, _I_ had to be Mysterio too," Grummins muttered.

"I'm gonna go get some air," Beck said, getting up. "Let me know if you need anything." He walked out of the loft onto the catwalk.

Beck lit a cigarette, a rare pleasure for him. He leaned his elbows on the chilly catwalk rail and he looked out into the darkness of the warehouses.

Never got this close to a mark before.

Beck steeled himself to do what he had to do.


	30. Betrayal

Peter sipped his hot chocolate. "I think this guy called Mysterio might have hypnotized me. I know I wouldn't know if he did, and it's driving me a little crazy. If I _am_ targeted with post-hypnotic suggestions, by the time I found out on my own it would be too late." He sipped some more. "This is really good hot chocolate."

Strange leaned against the counter in the kitchen, his bright red coat belted on like a bathrobe. He wore pajamas and slippers beneath, silken and smooth. "We'll have the truth of it soon enough," he said, his dark narrow face lit up with a saturnine reflection. He smiled. "You were wise to come to me."

"I try not to think about it too much," Peter said with the ghost of a smile. They headed up the stairs and down to the very end of the hall, to the ornate double doors. Strange gestured and they creaked open to admit the two, then closed behind them.

Peter looked around the room, somewhat in awe. The air felt… different in here. He saw many books, racks and shelves of bizarre artifacts. There was a large bed under the skylight. The walls were textured with wild squiggling gold patterns. The carpet was covered by a thick dull red carpet. There were several chairs and tables in the open spacious room.

"Welcome to my Sanctum Sanctorum," Strange intoned. He smiled. "Have a seat."

Peter sat in one of the huge chairs.

"And for my next trick," Strange murmured under his breath. He walked over to one of the shelves and quickly solved a complex puzzle box. Once he opened it, he pulled out an amulet about the size of his palm, a gold dome surrounded by what looked like gold beads fused together.

"That's some tacky jewelry you got there, Doc," Peter said.

"Not funny," Strange said shortly. He stood before Peter. "This is… this is the Eye of Agamotto." He hesitated. "Well, you'll see," he said.

"I can't be hypnotized, you know," Peter added quickly. "Beck, a friend of mine, gave me these hypnotic blocks."

"Really," Strange said. "Well, we'll see, won't we?"

"Uh," Peter said. "Yeah."

Strange settled the amulet at his throat. It clicked in place with his coat. "Now relax," Strange said. "I mean it. This won't hurt a bit. Unless you fight it. Then," he said reflectively, "well, it seems it hurts rather a lot." His eyes drifted half closed, and his senses began to wildly jangle in alarm as Peter's eyes were riveted on the amulet.

The gold dome of the amulet drifted open, and Peter was shocked to see a living eye of gold and light inside. It stared at him, piercing him, and every instinct screamed to fight back.

Peter forced himself to relax and open to the scrying.

The eye drifted clear of its amulet and settled itself on the forehead of Doctor Strange. Peter felt himself bathed in a golden light, and this time and place melted as the Eye probed his thoughts.

He saw himself in the living room of Aunt May's house, as the smoke coiled out of the kitchen. Back a little further.

As the scene played, the light was surreal. He saw the plants growing, saw the motes of dust hanging in the air from when he had walked in on his way upstairs. Timespace behaved as it wished in this peculiar half-memory. The entire encounter flashed by, and there was no evidence of hypnosis. Peter smiled.

Then he was crouched in his mesh, right before he leaped into Beck's living room. He moved, the bomb whirred like it was in fast forward while Peter spun slowly, leisurely, as though he were in slow motion in an instant replay. The entire encounter unfolded. Mysterio ducked out and ran away.

"No hypnosis," Peter breathed, relief in his voice. But the image spilled on, and suddenly it froze in clarity.

_Peter, hypnotized._

_Beck drew in a deep breath, then let it out. "You are tired of being poor," he said. "You are tired of charity. The spider ghost can bring you wealth undreamed of. You will not rest until you have stolen the Ardesty diamond collection at 20th and Bleeker, out of the Hammond Diamond shop. These desires will surface in you with great strength after you hear the word 'milkrun'." Beck paused. "When I snap my fingers you will awaken with no conscious memory of these instructions."_

_He snapped his fingers._

"No," breathed Peter. "That's impossible."

The Eye flashed further into the past, looking for something different now.

_Beck turned on the tape recorder and put it on the table. "How did you get your powers?" he said._

_"I don't know," Peter said slowly._

_Beck nodded to himself. "When did you get them?" _

_"Nineteen ninety two," Peter said. "I was in a coma for months in nineteen ninety one. I failed fifth grade."_

_"Did you have an accident?"_

_"No accident," Peter mumbled. "Poison. I opened a trunk in the attic. It had a puzzle box. I solved the puzzle box. A spider bit me." He paused. "Grandpa died in World War II. It was his trunk."_

_Beck nodded. "How did your uncle die?" he said._

_Peter turned his head, looked Beck right in the eye with a look that sent cold shivers racing up and down Beck's spine._

_"We don't want to talk about that right now," he said in a low, tight voice. He was terrifyingly alert, aware in spite of the hypnosis._ Peter saw and recognized the spider ghost part of himself.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he wondered.

Why do you think you're here? That's me telling you. The only way I can.

_Beck said, "When I snap my fingers, you will awaken and forget the entirety of our conversation. Do you understand?" He snapped off the tape recorder and slipped it in the drawer on the coffee table._

_Peter looked ahead again, his eyes glazing over. "I understand."_

_Beck snapped his fingers. Then he finished off his glass of wine._

_Peter shook his head. "I feel woozy," he said. "What did you find out?"_

_"Not much," Beck shrugged. "However, you should be able to sleep now." Beck smiled at him. "Seems you didn't have much you needed to talk about after all."_

Relentless now, the Eye sped further back…

_As Beck's smile grew, the screen saver kicked in on the computer screen behind him. Shifting colors and patterns…_

_"Hey, that's a neat screen saver," Peter said, then his gaze was drawn into it and he sat absolutely still, slack jawed._

_Beck thrust himself out of his chair and knelt at Peter's knee. "You will have trouble sleeping," he intoned, his voice low and fast. "A dark secret from your past has begun to plague you. If only you could talk to Beck about it, everything would be okay." He paused. "When you awaken, you will have no memory of this or the screen saver." Beck pushed himself up and back, and as he landed in his seat he nudged the mouse with his elbow. The screen saver shut off._

_Peter blinked._

_"So we're done?" he said._

The Eye drifted back down to the amulet, and the dome slid shut. Once again, the amulet looked like a piece of gaudy costume jewelry.

Peter sat stunned.

Strange looked away.

Peter felt like a bag of concrete had been rammed into his gut. His hands felt big and hot. He felt nausea, he felt as though his sinuses had been filled with sand. His eyes burned. He trembled.

"I can't believe it," he said, believing it.

Fury, grieving, shock, fear, resentment, and vengeance all tumbled in him and he just sat unmoving, trying to absorb the magnitude of the betrayal that had just been revealed to him.

"If he wasn't protecting me from hypnosis, then he must be in league with Mysterio," Peter said slowly.

Strange, who was much more astute in the revelations of the Eye, bowed his head and said nothing.

"Can you protect me from hypnotism?" Peter asked, his voice bitter. "I trust you."

Strange met his eyes. "I can," he said.

"I have cleared your mind of the old compulsions," Strange said, "or rather the Eye has. You will not be susceptible to further hypnosis," he added with a pass of his hand. He paused. "I'm here to help you, if you need it."

"Thank you," Peter said, looking away. "I don't want to be any more beholden to you than I already am. It's been that kind of month. But thanks, Doc."

Strange showed him to the door. "Don't be a stranger," he said softly.

Peter flashed him a smile full of pain, then jogged off down the street.

Strange watched him go. "Good fortune, Parker," he said as much to himself as the retreating young man. "Be careful."

**xXx**

Saturday dawn. Peter crouched in the alley, slipping out of his clothes and pulling on his mesh, complete with a gray patch on the dark silk. His head throbbed with the aftereffects of the gas, and he pushed down the heat and nausea of betrayal and all that came with it. He rubbed his eyes. They were swollen, but he wasn't sure if that was from the gas or from unshed tears.

"Mysterio knows I gotta come for him sooner or later," Peter muttered as he adjusted his mesh. "So he'd pick a place with lots of room and not a lot of neighbors. In New York.

Peter swung off towards the warehouse district.

Less than two hours later he picked up the scent of his spider tracer. In another fifteen minutes he was crouched on the roof of a warehouse, looking at the catwalk along the side of the warehouse, where his trace had come from. He also saw the state of the art cameras and surveillance gear. He stayed low and unobtrusive and simply observed.

This had to be the place.

Now or later? Stealth or frontal assault? Peter struggled with those questions. "At least there's no way they could expect me to come after them or find the place," Peter muttered. "Surprise is mine. I better not waste it."

Peter stealthed to the blind side of the warehouse, where the cameras were thinnest. He slithered up the wall and landed lightly on the catwalk, then in a single spring he was on the roof and laying flat. He crept to a skylight and inspected it for alarms.

Then Peter froze as he heard voices below.  
"The boss got back from Japan last night," said a man with a slow, thick voice. "Better wrap this up quick."

"So why's Parker supposed to do this job himself? Beck is an artist, airtight is his signature. He could make it _look_ like Parker did it and that wouldn't be as risky." The new voice was thinner, reedier, and had a hint of nasty in it.

"Don't bug me," the thick voice said. "Do I look like I'm in charge?"

Peter tugged the skylight and it snapped open; as the two men below looked up he landed between them. He snapped out with his fists, and they flew back to rebound with disturbing force from the walls. As an afterthought, he secured each of their right hands to the wall with a glob of web.

"No," he said softly to the big guy. "You _don't _look like you're in charge."

They both lay unconscious, taken by surprise and roughly handled. Peter crouched and moved to the door.


	31. Falling

Beck slowly put his coffee down as he stared slack jawed at his assistants laid out in their quarters. He heard the door open up on the balcony.

Oh, hell.

He padded silently and swiftly to the side room, the room with all concrete walls, the room with his equipment. Once inside, he delicately maneuvered the door to a closed position. Then he stood breathing heavily.

He had a Moment of Truth.

Fight or flee?

Then it was decided.

**xXx**

Peter clung to the wall, looking over the nearly empty warehouse. Looking for Beck.

He saw a gleam of reflection, and he looked again. Draped in a cloak, Mysterio stood on the balcony looking down over the room, with a prime view of the front door. Peter scowled under his mesh and closed in.

If Mysterio knew he was there, he gave no sign. Peter silently rose to his full height behind the dome. Then he snatched him by the cloak—

With an empty poof sound, the dome on top of the cloak seared a brilliantly painful light, like a huge flashbulb. As Peter tore the cloak away, there was a ripple of muffled cracks, and minibombs went off that were attached to the figure beneath. Blind, Peter staggered in the midst of a confetti storm.

Not good not good—

A steel bar crashed against his face, and he felt his skull warp with the force of the blow, only his springy bone tissue allowing his face to reform without getting bashed in. He hopped to the side, and another blow slammed across the other side of his head; he heard his neck cartilage crack as he spun and crashed against the railing. The bar slammed down across his shoulders, driving him to his knees.

His senses, not in top shape to begin with, could not cope with the afterimage that filled his eyes or the confetti that swirled around, hiding movement.

Then Peter discovered that the bar was a spear as it rammed into his left shoulder joint. He kicked back, toppling over the railing and falling gracelessly to the floor below. Every blink was more painful than his landing, and he continued to blink trying to clear his seared eyes. He scrabbled out toward the middle of the room, surrounding himself with open ground.

For a moment the only sound was the pattering sift of confetti settling to the ground and Peter's harsh, labored breathing. He squirted web over his shoulder as he felt blood slide down his ribs from his shoulder wound. He moved his arm and felt cracked bones shift. Damn. _Damn._

_"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year, plus bonuses, for a little cat burglary," _Mysterio intoned. _"But you had to do it the hard way."_ The deep, echoing voice rolled around the room like a living thing.

"The answer was, is, and will be no. Why is _that_ the hard way? I would think coming after me again and again with ever more annoying thugs would be the hard way. So why wouldn't I say yes to your boss then run? Your thugs sure as hell couldn't catch me, and finding me would be pretty tough too."

_"You have people you would not want to leave to the fate they would meet should you abandon them while they still mean something to you,"_ Mysterio said. _"Admirable. Dangerous for you and them, but admirable."_

Beck maneuvered on the balcony, trying to figure out how he wanted to cross the open space to Peter, or whether he wanted to.

"Where is Beck?" Peter asked, his voice tight. "What's his real involvement in all this?"

_"Perhaps one day you'll find out," _Mysterio murmured, low and nasty. _"Beck is _not_ a nice man."_

"So why are you here? Why didn't Beck just frame me, why'd he even bother hypnotizing me to steal the diamonds?" Peter dabbed blood from his mesh with the back of his hand. His mouth and nose were bleeding a little.

Beck stood transfixed, looking down at Peter. Little pain in the butt. How did he get around _every_ scheme? How did he find out about the hypnosis? How did he get to the bottom of this little puzzle so fast, before it had time to unwind? Beck struggled with fear, frustration, and rage as he stared through the helmet at the wounded young man on the floor.

_"You're good," _ Mysterio breathed. _"Very clever."_

"Then answer my question," Peter said.

_"If you were genuinely guilty, then you could not bring your incredible talents to bear on clearing your name. Your sense of guilt would lead you to accept your criminal action, to choose between overcoming the mistake or profiting from it. Other parts of the plan would encourage you to the latter."_ Mysterio moved to the best position to strike at the spider ghost from the balcony. _"You had to be guilty. You had to make the choice yourself. If it was thrust upon you, you would not accept it. You would have sought to clear your name."_

"You just don't get it," Peter said. "I can't live like you." He kept blinking, far more rapidly than a human could blink. "No matter what I did, it wouldn't drive me into the arms of whatever syndicate you represent. It's never too late to go for redemption. Never."

Once again Beck found himself with nothing to say. His resolve wavered. He felt a powerful urge to unscrew the helmet and go down to meet Peter Parker, to apologize, to try to make right the deliberate dismantling of the poor kid's life.

Instead he gritted his teeth and leaped from the balcony in a plume of narcotic smoke. Peter's vision had returned enough to see this coming, and he darted out of the way as Mysterio landed in a cloud of his own making.

The wall flared with color; an LCD projector hooked up to Beck's hypnotic screen saver. Peter grinned to himself and ignored it, safe from its effects. He fired a web into the smoke and tugged hard. Mysterio sailed out, the web stuck to his arm greave. Peter kicked at the helmet, not gently.

It cracked. The helmet jerked at the socket that held it on. In a simple swipe Mysterio shredded the web that held him to Peter, and he leaped back. He hurled an ampoule of fear gas at the floor between himself and the spider ghost—

Peter sailed over the tinkle of glass and plowed into Beck with his forearms. The two of them tumbled back, far out of range of the gas, Peter bitten by the steel edges in the costume, Mysterio desperately and hopelessly fighting to free himself.

Peter hauled Mysterio up by his shoulders and slammed him down. The helmet shattered well and truly, exploding.

Peter looked down in utter shock.

Mysterio… _was_ Beck.

"You son of a bitch," Peter said softly.

Beck lay on his back, not struggling, breathing hard, drinking in the look on Peter's face as though it were poison that might successfully kill him. He had nothing to say.

For a long minute they just looked at each other. Peter trickled blood from dozens of sharp, shallow cuts. His mesh hung in tatters. He freed himself and stood looking down at Beck.

"Who do you work for," Peter said, his voice dead.

"I can't tell you," Beck said.

"Then leave me alone," Peter said, and his eyes meant it. Peter turned and slowly walked out of the warehouse.

Beck lay still on his back for a long while after Peter left. Then, he eventually clambered to his feet. He stripped off the costume, hung it up neatly, and dressed in his street clothes.

"Time to go meet Fisk," he said softly.

**xXx**

"I expected your report last night," rumbled Fisk. "I take it you failed."

"Yes, but not until this morning," Beck said, strangely subdued. "Who is your new friend?"

The boardroom was sealed against sunlight, empty but for the four men at Fisk's desk. Fisk looked over at the middle aged dumpy man with shocks of white hair and wire rim glasses. The pudgy man had the benign look of a country preacher.

"This is Harlan Faber, a new associate I met on my travels. But that doesn't help you at all, does it?" Fisk growled. The lean man behind him smiled, an unpleasant look. Beck glanced at him only briefly.

"Glad you could make it, Ledge," he said. "Did Japan agree with you?"

"Cut the crap, let's get this show on the road," Ledge said.

Beck tossed a briefcase on the table. "In that you'll find copies of video tapes, photographs, transcripts, and all sorts of physical evidence that links thugs to lieutenants, and lieutenants to you. There's enough in there to give somebody with some determination a sledgehammer to take down your wall. I have five more primed to go to different law enforcement and media outlets. You let me go, I let you go. You nail me," Beck shrugged, "I give somebody the hammer to nail you."

The room was dead silent.

Fisk chuckled.

"You have a deal," Fisk said merrily, "on the condition you can get out of the building alive. You are gravely mistaken to think that anybody, with _any _evidence, is going to come after me. Ledge," he said sharply, "use my new weapon to end Beck's life."

"Sir," Ledge said. "You got it."

Beck threw a kick, and a graceful one with some power at that. Ledge was effortlessly out of the way, and he sunk a knuckle in Beck's jugular. Beck flew back, and Ledge was on him. Gripping him by the wrist and lapel, Ledge twisted and Beck was off his feet, in a tight arc through the air, and crashing heavily to the ground. He was groggy as Ledge hauled him up to his feet and dusted him off.

"One pulverized flunky, comin right up," he grinned. "I'll be right back."

Fisk nodded, and Ledge dragged the half-conscious Beck out of the room.

"Whu," Beck managed, prying at the iron grip Ledge had on his shirt.

"You'll like it. It's a fun game called Chutes and Ladders. The trick is, there aren't any chutes or ladders." He chuckled. "I crack myself up. And I crack you up. Here we are."

He had escorted Beck down a hall, and at the end of the hall was a fire door.

"But—" Beck said, "we are _way_ high off the ground!"

"Bingo," grinned Ledge. He kicked the fire door open and Beck paled at the drop all the way down to the garden, hundreds of feet below.

"No!" he shouted hoarsely, kicking up a wild struggle.

Ledge grappled with him, then pounded a savage blow into his face. Beck went limp and slid backwards out the door, falling.

Ledge watched with a grin.

Then with a sound like a casting fishing pole, an unreeling of something hissed through the air. Ledge blinked as the webline shot down past him and snagged Beck's ankle.

"No you don't," Ledge said, whipping a shuriken out of his belt and flinging it through the thin web strand. The strand parted, and Beck let out a healthy scream as he resumed falling.

A shadowy figure dove past Ledge, ribbons of webbing slithering in the wind as he shot straight down through the air after Beck. Ledge leaned forward to watch, fascinated.

The dark figure caught Beck, fired web at a wall, tugged over to it and wheel kicked off to bleed momentum. Then a few whirls later, the spider ghost had brought himself and Beck to a halt on the wall, a mere three stories from the broken, rust-colored concrete below.

Then the spider ghost was in motion, moving up the wall like a speedy force of nature. Ledge watched, amazed, his jaw slack, as in a matter of fifteen seconds the spider ghost had bounded all the way up to the top of the building, only one bound from escape.

"Destiny," Ledge breathed to himself with a grin. "I'm gonna get to throw down with _that._" He let his smile grow. Then he realized he had let Beck get away.

"Aw, crap," he muttered. He went back to Fisk…


	32. Research

Two bruised and cut men sat in the café booth looking at their coffee. They looked as though they had both been in a savage fight, and the other patrons left them alone.

"The money trouble, the car, Aunt May in the hospital, all of it," Peter said softly. "So Wilson Fisk is the man behind my troubles. Behind Lincoln, and Voorhees. Behind you."

"Yes," Beck said.

"You set me up for the fall then got close to me, to offer me support for the weight you heaped on me."

"Yes," Beck said.

"I didn't know anyone could be that heartless," Peter said, his voice flat.

"I know it was wrong," Beck said. Peter looked up, looked him in the eye. "Don't look at me like that," Beck said, shifting uneasily. "I'm out of that situation now. I did what I had to do. So did you."

"I can't believe you just said that," Peter said, and he looked down into his coffee again. "I can't forgive you for what you've done to me, Beck."

"Maybe not today," Beck said. "Maybe not this year, or this decade. But maybe someday." Beck took a deep breath. "Thanks for following me to Fisk's place and saving my life. I swear I'll make it up to you someday."

Peter sat unmoving. "I did what I had to do, just like you said. And now I know who's behind it all."

Beck sighed. "Take care, Peter Parker," he said, touching his forearm. Peter did not react. Beck walked out of the café, carefully looked both ways, then crossed the street and vanished into the city.

Peter sat there until they served lunch, then he bought some.

He thought long and hard.

"Okay, Fisk," he said under his breath. "Live and let live. But I swear, you come after me one more time, and you are going down." His eyes narrowed. "That's a promise."

_Lilly livered tripe. Go to his castle, kick in a window, and rip his damned face off! What's the matter with you? What does it take?_

"Promise me we won't kill him," Peter said softly. "Promise me that and we'll go."

Things got very, very quiet.

Peter slowly nodded to himself. "We give him one more chance." He finished his lunch.

**PART THREE: CLOSING THE DEAL Tuesday, December 10**

Fisk sat bathed in orange light, watching the sun go down outside, watching darkness fill his city. A thin curl of smoke drifted up from his cigarette. Fisk shifted his grip on the cigarette holder, tapping off ash. Behind him, Ledge stood at ease, noiseless.

The door opened. Fisk's aid scurried in. "Excuse me, Mister Fisk, but I have that report you wanted."

"Yes?" Fisk said.

The aid nodded. "We've finished preliminary analysis of Beck's investigation into the nature of the spider ghost's powers. Beck tape recorded his interrogation of the hypnotized Peter Parker, and he discovered that in nineteen ninety one Peter Parker went into a coma after being bitten by a spider that was in a puzzle box in a trunk in his uncle's attic. The assumption is that the trunk belonged to his 'grandfather.' So we checked the paternal and maternal grandfathers."

The aid checked his notes, not at all rattled by the fact that his employer seemed to be ignoring him. "His aunt's grandfather died twelve years ago of cancer after a life spent working in sales. But the other grandfather was killed in World War II over in Germany in the last months of the war."

Fisk slowly swiveled around to eye his aid. "Surely you followed up on that."

"Indeed," nodded the aid. "It wasn't easy, though. We had to send one of our expert hackers into the Pentagon's files, and since this issue dates back to the second World War there isn't much on computers. We would have to physically break into the Pentagon to find their paper files. As it is, we found out that he was in army intelligence, and his death in a plane crash is highly suspicious. After his death, a trunk of his personal effects was sent to his son, Ben Parker, who is Peter Parker's uncle and father figure."

Fisk sat lost in thought. Then he nodded to himself. "Get me that trunk," he rumbled.

His aid bobbed with a motion halfway between a nod and a bow, then turned and left.

"The bosses are waiting for the meeting to get rolling," Ledge mentioned helpfully.

"They can wait," Fisk boomed softly.

"Let me kill Parker," Ledge said. "He's making you look bad. The others found out about this little hunt when Lincoln got himself broken, and now it's like some kinda soap opera. If he's allowed to run free in defiance of you, then he's a problem."

"He is elusive," Fisk said. "I must decide whether to guarantee my success by committing significant resources, or whether to decide he is beneath my notice, or to simply have him killed." He sighed. "Halfway measures have stripped me of three valuable resources. Losing Beck is the greatest loss, however. He was most useful."

"You know what they say, boss," Ledge said, lighting up a cigarette and talking around it. "If raw force isn't solving your problem, you aren't using enough."

"Such prattle belongs in the mouths of assassins and underbosses," Fisk said with a dismissive wave. "You lack _vision_, Ledge. The secret of how this spider ghost got his power could be… useful," he murmured. "We should not kill him until we understand how he came to be what he is. I want him taken alive."

"Say the word. I go to his house. Wait until he's sleeping. Pop some teargas in, trank the holy hell out of him. Fait accompli, boss."

"I'll consider it," mused Fisk. "I cannot let the loss of three of my people go unanswered."

The door opened again. Fisk directed a surly look at it. His aide put his head in.

"The natives are restless, sir," he said.

"Let them in," Fisk rumbled.

"Send in the clowns," Ledge grinned. "Another night, another cavalcade of crime."

"Spare me, Ledge," Fisk muttered. "Show me how well you can be silent and menacing."

As the underbosses and lieutenants trooped in, Ledge was silent and menacing, and Fisk presided another night over his sprawling empire that lay both above and below the surface of the law.

**Wednesday, December 11**

Peter whistled the theme song to a game show as he tended the frying bacon. He kept track of the eggs, too, making sure everything sizzled up just right. He wore pajamas under his bathrobe, complete with slippers. The bacon popped, spattering his arm with hot grease. He just frowned at it.

"Kiss the spider-tough chef," he murmured to himself. "Ha ha, didn't hurt. And I'm gonna eat you, too."

"What was that, Peter?" Aunt May asked querulously from the living room.

"Just talking to the bacon, Aunt May," Peter called back. "Almost done."

The toast popped up, and Peter snagged the bread out of the toaster, scooped the eggs up and patted them on the plate, then zipped bacon out of the skillet and arranged it just so in a matter of seconds. He twirled in to the living room and bowed, placing the plate on the tv tray Aunt May had out in front of her.

"Buhrekafast, is, aserved," Peter said.

"Oh, Peter," Aunt May said. "Aren't you having any?"

"Be right back," he said, strolling into the kitchen. He scooped everything else that was hot onto another plate, this one considerably deeper piled. He headed back out to the living room.

"Don't you have school today?" Aunt May said, cocking her head to the side.

"Starts at nine," Peter said. "Plenty of time. This way I get to spend some time with my favorite lady before she goes to Florida." He grinned at her.

"Oh, Peter, are you _sure_ you can afford to send me to Florida?"

"I can and _will_, Aunt May. Ticket? Check. Cash, credit, and traveler's checks? Uh, check. All that's left for you to do is finish packing. Don't forget your bikini and suntan lotion."

"I wish you could come," she said.

"You'll be fine," he said. "You'll meet up with what's his name? Right, Lubensky. I'd go with you, but I can't leave my schooling. You'll be gone a week. All that warm air and sun should be good for you," he said with a smile. "Just be sure to behave yourself. No fooling around."

She blushed. "Peter!" she said.

He glanced at the clock and downed his breakfast with disturbing speed. Then, with his cheek-pouches still full, he hopped into the kitchen and made sure everything was off, then he zipped up the stairs to get dressed.

"Woo!" said Aunt May. "So this is what it's like living with a tornado."

Peter would have sarcastically laughed, but his mouth was full.

Two minutes later he was down over the banister with his bag of books. "Gotta go, see you tonight, and be sure you get all packed so we can go tomorrow!" Peter said. He kissed her on the cheek quickly, then spun around just as the car horn honked outside. "Bye!" Peter said, and he was through the door and gone.

Peter hopped in Harry's sleek road machine, and they pulled away.

From the shadows next door, a shadow watched them go, and smiled. Then the dark figure effortlessly scaled the side of the house and popped the window to the attic open, vanishing silently inside.

**xXx**

"Hey Harry," Peter said. "You look like a million bucks."

Harry laughed. "You are such a geek, Parker."

"We can't all be gifted by the gods," Peter said. "Hey, you want to room together again now that things are settling out some?"

Harry paid a lot of attention to the road. "I don't know, Peter. You're awfully… accident prone."

There was a long moment of silence.

"Yeah," Peter said, looking out the window. "Yeah, I know what you mean." He felt Harry slipping way from him, he felt himself losing his most normal friend. He felt his heart sinking, slowly, by degrees. "Anyway," he said, groping around for a topic, "How is MJ doing these days?"

"She's good," Harry said, and he shut up. Peter blinked. "So do you plan to get a new car?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," Peter shrugged. "I do okay on foot and using the bus, and now and then a taxi. A car, you got your insurance, and there's nowhere to park, and it breaks down and needs fixing… I don't know."

"Especially since you have sucker friends who'll pick you up and take you to school," Harry said dryly.

"Huh," Peter said, "I think you've hit on something," he grinned.

They were just quiet for a few minutes, and then Harry pulled in and found a parking spot. They got out of the car.

Mary Jane swayed over to meet them, and while Harry greeted her properly, Peter moved past them, imagining himself invisible, and he headed towards class.


	33. End Run

The shadowy figure had found the trunk swiftly enough, jimmied the lock effortlessly, and immediately found the octagonal puzzle box. Raising it to eye level, the shadow smiled. A familiar model. Seconds, and it was sprung open.

Empty?

Hardly.

The intruder put a finger against the bottom of the puzzle box and pushed hard. The false bottom was dented, and the intruder impatiently tugged it out. There, gleaming, was the true prize.

The shadow swiftly snapped the box shut, tucked it away, and withdrew into the shadows of the attic to wait for the next intruder who would certainly be along shortly.

**xXx**

It was a few minutes until noon, and Peter walked along the sidewalk lost in his own thoughts. He glanced up to see Mary Jane strolling down the sidewalk towards him.

"Hey tiger," she said. "Long time no see."

"I've been hiding," he said with his most charming smile.

"Well don't," she said. "Come to lunch with me. My treat." She flashed him a dazzling smile.

"What about Harry?" Peter said.

"He has class," Mary Jane replied. "You aren't thinking of making me eat my lunch alone, are you?"

"You drop a dime you have twenty people at your table," Peter said with half a smile.

"Don't make me," she said with a mock stern look.

"So where do we eat?" Peter shrugged, his smile filling out.

Ten minutes later they were seated in the student union eating greasy unhealthy fattening food that managed to be edible. Peter inspected one of his limp fries.

"So how is Aunt May?" Mary Jane asked.

"Better," Peter said with a decisive nod. "I'm sending her to Florida for a week to, you know, RnR and stuff."

"Cool," she said. "So is your unseen attacker through with you now?"

"Damn, MJ, don't shift gears on me like that," Peter said, his eyes bugging out a little as he adjusted. She tried not to smile.

"I'm a woman," she said loftily. "It's what I _do._"

"No argument here," he muttered. "I know who was behind it all. You don't want to, trust me on that. I don't know," he said with a shrug. "If he makes another play for me, I'm going to get around it and go straight to the source and put a stop to this nonsense. But if he leaves me alone, I'll let it go." His eyes narrowed. "One last chance to leave me alone. Then I go to him and work this out personally."

They sat quietly eating for a couple minutes.

"I'm more worried about Harry at this point," Peter said, glancing around. "I feel like I'm losing him. Harry's the best friend I've got, MJ. I know I deserve the cold shoulder ten times over, because I'm so unreliable and secretive. Still, I was trying so _hard_ before all this happened, and now it's just coming apart in my hands."

"Harry's just going through a tough time right now," Mary Jane said quietly, looking down at her french fries. "He's living at home. His father should have cloned instead of reproducing; Harry isn't his carbon copy, and that leads to a little tension." She shrugged. "Maybe Harry's jealous of you."

"Jealous? Of me?" Peter said, startled.

"Yes," Mary Jane said, looking directly into his eyes

Peter got a sinking feeling.

"Mary Jane Watson," he said, "I would _never_ make a play for another man's woman. I'm _serious._"

"Honestly, Peter," she said quietly. "We're just dating. I'm kind of insulted that you could honestly believe I belong to anyone."

"I can't do this," Peter said. "Harry is my friend. I'm sorry, MJ. I gotta go. I'll see you around." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. Thanks for lunch." He got up and headed for the door.

"Somebody's rattled," Mary Jane said as she watched him go. She sighed a little sigh. "You need my help, Parker," she said simply. "And you _are_ a dangerous creature…"

**xXx**

Aunt May hauled the front door open and peered at the man in the khaki uniform. "Yes?" she said.

"Animal Control, ma'am. The neighbors have reported bats flying out of your attic. I'm here to take a look for you." He smiled, charming.

"Ooh, well then," she said. "Come on in." She opened the screen door and the heavyset man walked in.

"Where's your attic, ma'am?" he said. He followed her up the stairs, then he hauled the attic open. He turned to her. "You might want to go downstairs, just in case I have to catch one of these critters." His smile was positively disarming.

"Alright," she said. "Holler if you need anything." She turned and worked her way down the stairs.

The big man climbed up into the attic, snapped on his flashlight, and played it around the attic. He smiled. "Bingo," he said. He walked over to the heavy bound trunk.

He stopped abruptly as he felt a gun barrel touch the back of his head.

"Leave the trunk, there's nothing there you want," came a soft voice from behind him. "Take me to your boss."

"You're dead," the man in khakis said simply. "I'll take you back to the boss and he'll kill you."

The shadow behind him chuckled. "Let me worry about that. I'll bring the trunk if it will make you feel better. Go distract the old woman. I'll put the trunk in your van and we can go."

"I have no words for how dead you are," the big man said, shaking his head. "D-E-D, dead."

"Let's go," said the shadow.

The big man clambered down the ladder and went down to the kitchen to where the old woman sat wringing her hands. The other figure came down the ladder behind him, balancing the trunk on one shoulder.

"Everything's fine, false alarm," the man in khakis said to the old woman as he stood blocking her view of the stairs and door. "Thanks for your time and cooperation." The other figure hefted the trunk out of the house, unseen.

"Oh, you're a nice young man," she said. "Do you want a cookie?"

"Uh, no thanks," he said, managing a smile. "Have a nice day." He turned and scooted out of the house. The trunk slid into the van, doors slammed behind it. Then the two got in the van and drove away.

**xXx**

The library was quiet. Peter was deeply enmeshed in calculus when the chair across the table from him scooted back and Harry Osborn sat down. Peter looked up, losing all the threads of calculation, numbers spilling everywhere.

"Hey, Peter," Harry said. He looked pale, smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes, a certain hollowness to him. "How you doing?"

"Harry, good to see you," Peter said.

"Yeah," Harry said. "Look, I just came to apologize. I've been a real butthead lately. It's just… I'm still a little shaken up over the car accident."

"I am so sorry about that," Peter said. "I wish there was something I could do to make up for it."

Harry watched him for a long moment. "You could let me beat your butt at racquetball. I've just gotten the go-ahead for physical activity, I thought maybe we could smack the ball around for old time's sake."

"I'd like that," Peter said. "Six?"

"Six," Harry nodded. He smiled. "See you there, hot stuff."

"You're on," Peter grinned. Harry got up and walked away, moving slowly. Peter sat and thought about it for a long moment, then dove back into calculus.

**xXx**

The big man shouldered his way into Fisk's board room. He walked up to the desk, glancing at the two thugs standing by the window looking over the city through the thin slits in the shades. The big man thudded the trunk down on the desk.

"Nothing in it," he said, shaking his head. "Nothing like the spider you're looking for." He made eye contact with Fisk.

"What?" Fisk asked, his brow clenching.

The delivery man's hand darted into his jacket, he yanked out a gun and snapped off two shots. Trank darts thudded into the necks of the two guards, and they tumbled gracelessly to the floor. The man's features blurred, he lost a foot of height and he became a woman with short dark hair, delicate features, and bright green eyes. She put the gun on the table.

"I'm impressed," Fisk rumbled. "Talk fast, for your own sake."

"I work for a classified weapons manufacturer," she said. "I've had Forrest Parker's file flagged for decades, so if anyone accessed it I would be notified. Your clumsy probes alerted me to your investigation. I checked you out, found Voorhees, found out you're looking for Peter Parker, and I realized who he really was. You gave his secret identity away to me. You can have me killed, but I know the secret to his powers and I would like nothing better than to turn him over to grovel at your heel." She smiled.

"You wouldn't want to keep him for your weapons testing?" Fisk murmured, his huge voice filling the room like a living thing. "You work for the government, do you not?"

"I don't work directly for the government, we have a special relationship. And no, I don't want Parker for myself. I know how he happened. I don't need him, you see. We have met before and… it would please me to see him cowed. I owe him some revenge, and helping you with your plan to own him seems a fitting way to get it."

"You may live," Fisk said with an indulgent wave of his hand. "Now tell me the secret of the spider ghost."

"Now now," she said with a glittering smile, "_that_ would be telling."

Fisk smiled and nodded. The woman's eyes narrowed, then she threw herself to the side.

Too slow. A weight the size of a roll of quarters smacked firmly into the back of her head, pitching her forward. She landed on her hands and knees, groggy, then another blow knocked her unconscious; she sagged to the carpet. Ledge stepped out of the shadows behind her.

"Yes," Fisk rumbled, "that _will_ be telling…"


	34. Unwanted Attention

"Not a day too early," Peter muttered, his fists jammed into his pockets as he walked down the steps from the quad to the sidewalk by the street. "Gotta get Aunt May to Florida. There's snow in the wind."

Just then a gust of wind battered his windbreaker, coursing across him, and he tasted it; it tasted of flying. His eyes lost focus, his body temperature rose, as the wind woke him up and set his senses to tingling, he felt his fingertips flex, his blood speed up.

"I promised," he muttered. "No more exercising."

_What, are you dead? Let's get out there and swing into this gorgeous stuff!_

"Shut up, brain, or I'll stab you with a q tip," Peter muttered.

_Ooh, threats._

"Whatcha thinkin about?" Mary Jane asked, standing at his elbow. He jumped, and glanced at her.

"You know, you're the only person who can sneak up on me all the time," he said. "Why is that?"

_Maybe we want her to get a little closer._

"It's my radar absorbent plating," she said with an arched eyebrow that set Peter to tingling even more. "So what goes on in your head when you're just gazing off into space like that? I have a penny here somewhere," she said, digging in her coat pockets. "Here. A penny for your thoughts." She presented the dingy little coin.

"Now it's my turn to be insulted," he said. He looked back up at the wind. "I was thinking that if I was coming over that building I'd have to correct for wind, but a solid jump could carry me across five lanes in weather like this, the wind would be behind me. Makes my arms itch. The wind is calling me." He shook his head. "And I have a test in Calculus tomorrow."

"Wow," she said. "What a rush. Don't you ever resent all the noise, though? Do you ever wish you were a normal person, so you didn't have so much to hide?"

"Everybody does, I think," Peter said with a shrug. "Few people think they're normal. I just have a little more to keep under wraps than your average angst-ridden young adult, that's all." He grinned. "See, if I was a normal Joe, I would ignore the idea of being tugged away over the city by the wind, and convince the cute woman that's flirting with me to give me a ride home. Maybe we could grab dinner somewhere. Want to pick up Harry, make it a threesome?"

"Oh, I'm _much_ too demure," Mary Jane said, pulling her scarf up to fashion a hood and batting her eyes. Peter blushed furiously as he gathered her meaning. She laughed at him. "Get in my car, you big lug."

They dropped down into the car, and headed off campus. "Harry's studying," she said, "as usual. When I drag him out of his hole, he's gloomy. Frankly, the 'grumpy guy' routine is losing amusement value fast. I'm shopping around," she said, keeping her tone light.

"You could take on Gwen for Flash," Peter said with a grin.

"You nuts?" Mary Jane said, throwing him a sideways look. "Gwen is _dangerous_ when she's angry."

"Yes," Peter reflected, "Yes she is."

**xXx**

She groaned as the world began to slide back into focus. She moved to touch her head, and her arms jangled their chains. Blinking, she looked down.

She was laying on the board room table before Fisk. A ring was set into the table, and she was shackled. Her chains went through the ring. She couldn't get higher than a kneeling position, nor could she leave the table.

"Kinky," she noted. Then she realized her flesh was blue; her eyes must be pale, her hair straight dark crimson. With a thought, she changed her shape.

Nothing happened.

She stared at Fisk. "What did you do to me," she whispered.

"It's reversible," Fisk said with an almost imperceptible shrug. "I have some considerable talent on my team. This is Harlan Faber," he said, gesturing with one massive hand to a dumpy middle aged man with shocks of white hair. He peered over small wire rim spectacles, and his mouth was hidden behind a thick white moustache. He was dressed in black, and that lent him the impression of a country preacher.

"Faber can… take your powers away," Fisk continued. "They are still there, you just can't get to them anymore. I didn't want to take any chances with you. You have no business whining about it," he added, narrowing his eyes. "What did you expect, brazenly strolling into my territory?"

"What time is it?" she asked.

Ledge checked his watch. "Just after two in the afternoon," he said.

"You've got less than ten minutes to free me and return my powers," she said, low and nasty. "At two o'clock my backup team departed to rescue me. You can kill me and try to fend them off, but if you play it like that then you're stupid and you deserve what you get. You let me go and restore my powers, I make a phone call and that whole problem goes away. I still want to cut a deal, but if you don't work with me _on my terms_ then we have no deal. If you wait until my people get here," she said with a hard smile, "you're a dead man."

"Let me whack her," Ledge said quickly.

"Wait," Fisk said, raising his hand. "Release her." Ledge clenched his jaw, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the key. He tossed it at the woman on the table, who dexterously freed herself.

"Okay," she said, standing on the table and looking down at Fisk. "Undo whatever you did then we'll work out terms."

"What are you offering me?" Fisk said. "It might not be worth my effort."

"I've gotten close to Parker before and I can do it again. Without my camouflage," she said pointedly, "it's a little more difficult. I can copy those near and dear to him, and I'm ready to do it again. Faber's talent will also help me with my plan."

"Keep talking," Fisk rumbled, beginning to like her in spite of himself.

"No. That's all the plan we get before I'm restored," she said. "Plus, we're running out of time."

Fisk hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Very well. But for Faber's power to work, you must be unconscious."

"I got this," Ledge said, tugging a club out of his belt.

Faber gave him a dirty look and produced a syringe. The woman dropped off the table and presented her arm. A prick and a squeeze later, the room closed in and all was dark.

**xXx**

Mary Jane pulled up across the street from Peter's house. "Chez Parker, on your left," she said. "Here you go."

"Thanks for the ride," Peter said. He got out of the car and leaned over to talk to her. "Thanks for lunch, too. But I can't do this. Maybe we'd better… stay away from each other. I mean, I like you," he added quickly, "I really do, but I can't bring myself to ignore Harry's claim here. Please don't… you know… follow me around or ask me to go places with you. It isn't right. If you were dating me and I was going through a bad patch, I'd expect the same courtesy." His eyes were serious.

"Okay," she said lightly. "I'll leave you alone. Sorry for chasing you. Whatever," she said. "Shut my door, Parker," she added. He closed the car door, and she stomped on the gas, tugging the car out into traffic.

"Smooth, Parker," he muttered. He shrugged. "Maybe she'll be angry enough to leave me alone."

_I can't believe how stupid you are. We could have gotten a big juicy piece of Mary Jane. And you tell her to go away. I can't believe we're stuck in here together._

"And you," Peter muttered. "Shut up, you."

**xXx**

The world slid slowly into focus, emerging from darkness. She sat up, rubbing her neck. "I hate that," she muttered, and her form shifted into the pale dark-haired woman once more.

"Why did you do that," Fisk asked abruptly. She looked over at him.

"Why don't you talk about your finances to the police?" she said. "There's a great deal of safety to be had in concealing your true nature and talents."

"I rather like your other form," Fisk persisted.

She looked him in the eye. "Life's full of little tragedies."

He smiled as his forehead creased with determination. "You might find me more tractable if you respect this small request."

Slowly, her flesh rippled and changed. A few seconds later she was once again midnight blue, her hair crimson and straight, her eyes pale and empty. Fisk smiled to himself. "Thank you," he said. Ledge walked up beside her and wordlessly offered her a phone.

She took it and punched in a number. Waited for the other end to pick up. "Code forty three," she said. "Yes." Then she punched the off button and tossed the phone back.

"Now that we're all friendly," she said, "let's get down to brass tacks."

"How old are you?" Fisk asked, studying her.

"It's not polite to ask a lady her age," she replied.

"In my position, it is not often necessary to be polite," he said.

"You would do well to consider this the exception that proves the rule," she said, narrowing her eyes. "What does it matter to you how old I am?"

"I was just wondering," he said, "whether you were some kind of fey, some fairy creature strayed into the waking world."

"I'm not," she said.

"How do you know?" he asked softly, his huge voice curling around her.

"The plan," she said deliberately, "is to lure Peter Parker into this by telling him I know how he got his power and that he's about to lose it. He'll be difficult. So I'll knock him out and Faber can seal off his power. Are you sure you can manage it?" she asked Faber.

He nodded.

"Right then. I'll tell him he needs a serum that only I can get through my contacts. I'll shoot him up. Your job here is to make sure the serum is damned addictive. I tell him it wears off in about a week, and if he wants to keep his powers he will have to weasel it out of one of your criminal empire's hard targets." She looked at Fisk.

He nodded. "Keep talking."

"At that point you have a choice. Turn him over to the police for breaking and entering, squeeze some robberies out of him by renting him his power, whatever. He'll be in your power, that's my point. And if he doesn't go to renew his serum, we take him in his sleep again and Faber wipes out his power for good, if he can manage it. You still win."

"If he tussles with the police," Fisk said slowly, "he'll be on the run and Peter Parker will be a name too hot to carry. In prison he'd be poked and prodded until they found his powers, a disaster for him. Or I could have him dealt with." He nodded. "A satisfactory plan. Faber, go with her. Do what she needs."

She smiled. "A pleasure doing business with you, Fisk."

"You have me at a disadvantage," he said. "What shall I call you?"

"Call me Mystique," she said, her form rippling back to the pale dark-haired woman. "I've earned it."

Then she walked out the way she came in, Faber in tow.

Ledge stepped forward as the door shut.

"She's going to double cross you and get Faber killed and that's a bad thing," Ledge said quickly.

"Of course she is," Fisk said. "She's going to try. But I would like very much to have her within my power as well."

Ledge gave Fisk a long look, then he shook his head and sighed. "Figures, a big tough guy like you would be a closet Smurfette fancier. Maybe we could dress her up in a little white toga, high heels and a hat. After all, she's a shapeshifter, she can give herself blonde curls…"

"For now," Fisk said as though he had not heard Ledge, "I'll have my people watch her. Watch how she deals with Parker. She wants something else out of this that she hasn't told us about. When we know what," he said, looking directly at Ledge, "then it will be time to move."

Ledge smiled.


	35. Warning

"Delicious," Peter said, pushing back from the table. "You cook a wicked meatloaf, Aunt May," he said.

"Thank you, Peter," she said. "Now you go do your homework and I'll wash up."

"No, let me do that," he said. "You go relax. You've got a big day tomorrow, leaving for your trip."  
"I can't go relax, I'm not done packing for the trip," she said primly.

"Not… done packing?" Peter said. "What did you do today?"

"A young man just can't understand what a woman has to do to prepare for something like this," Aunt May sniffed.

"Fair enough," Peter said with a grin. "I'll wash up and then go hit the books. You just do whatever you need to do, pretty lady. If you look for me and I'm not here, I'm probably going for a walk."

"Just be careful, Peter," she said.

He finished the dishes with record speed then he headed upstairs and settled in at his desk. Calculus test tomorrow.

For a long, long second he fought the urge.

Then he dove into his backup set of mesh, slipped out the window, and bounded off into the wild night.

"Maybe I'm free of Fisk's goony plans, maybe not," Peter muttered as he sprang over two houses to land running on a third. "Even if I'm not, it's either this or go insane." He squirreled across the rooftops and bounded to land on the top of a bus. He settled himself comfortably, headed downtown.

A few minutes later he bounded off the bus, fired out weblines, and swung up into the glowing dimness of the urban night sky. He slapped onto a skyscraper and climbed like a madman, twirling around the building. In minutes he was high above the city, his senses tingling with the raw danger and thrill of looking down to pinpricks of light that were cars. He leaned back against the wall, looking like a gargoyle, and he assumed the thinker position.

Mary Jane making a play for him… but what about Harry? If Harry loses Mary Jane through some fumble, can Peter in good conscience pick her up? Will Mary Jane leave the choice to him? If she comes after him, is he strong enough to turn her away? Should he? Would she be more faithful to him than she was to Harry, or would he get stale too?

How much of Harry's current funk is Peter's fault anyway? Because of Peter he lost the bungalow and he was in a car accident, forced to move back in with his father. Peter wondered if Harry really knew how crazy Peter was about Mary Jane. He put his face in his hands. How could Harry _not _know?

"The king of subtlety I'm not," Peter muttered. He looked out over the city, heard the faint echo of a siren wailing, felt the skyscraper flex and shift in the powerful wind. He grinned.

"God it's good to be me," he said aloud to the wind.

Still, it was important to spend some time fixing all his busted relationships. Damn Fisk and everything to do with him. Just when Harry and Aunt May and finances and normal life were coming together, then Fisk's boys hit his health, his money, his family, his friends…

"I can't believe you poisoned Aunt May," he said, looking at Fisk's building. It was even taller than the one he clung to. He repressed the anger that rose in him. "You better be done," he said, shaking a finger at the skyscraper, "or you and me are going to have words." He shied away from what that could mean. He didn't want to start something he couldn't finish.

"Let it go, Parker," he murmured. "I could nail him. But I'm not sure I want to become what I would have to be to do that." He stopped, thought back over the sentence, and nodded to himself. "Yeah."

**xXx**

Fisk looked impassively out the huge glass walls he used for windows. Below, his city glittered and twinkled, beautiful from a distance and riddled with corruption that provided him with incredible power. He looked at the low clouds, loaded with snow that was waiting to fall. More blew in every moment. A storm was building.

Outside, his underbosses and lieutenants waited to come in and pay homage, to receive their marching orders, to submit to the force that kept the city running smoothly both legally and illegally. Fisk's law was the law. He smiled quietly to himself.

Then his smile faded as his thoughts strayed to Peter Parker. Sometimes a calculated risk fails. He wondered briefly if he had begun something he would not care to see through to the bitter end.

"You have defied me," he murmured to Peter. "It's too late. Too late to bring you under my control. Now I must kill you." He nodded to himself. His organization was like a prison; the inmates outnumber the guards, and it was very important to keep them from understanding what that could mean. One example of insurrection, one defiance that was not crushed went a long way in the anecdotal wisdom of the underworld. Must not be a Robin Hood.

Fisk felt just a small cold spot of fear as he contemplated the fact that now Parker knew where he lived. Who he was. The game became dangerous. Fisk wondered if he was going to have to kill Parker himself, with his bare hands…

**xXx**

Peter shrugged it off, and looked at the tower one last time. "I have better things to do than sit up here and spin worry out of air." He dropped, fired a webline, and turned his fall into an arc, whistling through the air and nearly painful speeds, a grin plastered over his face under the mesh. Eventually he reached the end of his journey and he slid his window up, slithered in, and closed the window behind him.

At the end of the street, a man with binoculars raised a walkie talkie to his mouth and said "Go." His voice was toneless, and he then resumed his watching.

Peter folded his mesh and put it in a drawer under his socks and underwear. He was dressed once more. He wiped his mouth; time to go get something to drink. Just as he left his room, the doorbell rang. He hopped down the stairs and opened the door.

Gwen smiled at him.

"Hi," Peter said, rocked back on his heels. "Gwen, hi. Uh, come on in," he said. He opened the door further and stepped out of the way. She blinked demurely at him and moved into the living room. Peter noticed she was holding a sizeable bouquet.

"Thanks, Peter," Gwen said. "It's good to see you again. I came by to wish Aunt May well on her trip."

Just then Aunt May came out of the kitchen. "Oh, hello, Stacy," she said with a warm smile.

"Hello, Aunt May," Gwen said, giving Aunt May a little hug. "These are for you, to wish you good fortune on your travels tomorrow."

"Why, thank you," Aunt May said, her eyes large. Gwen smiled at her and blushed a little. "I'll go put these in water," Aunt May said, and she hefted the bouquet back towards the kitchen.

"Wanna go get some coffee?" Gwen asked Peter, her eyes asking a different question.  
"There's a Starbucks a few blocks over," Peter said.

"Sounds perfect," she said. "Walking distance."

Peter grabbed his windbreaker. "Be right back, Aunt May," he called, and then he followed Gwen out into the chilly night.

They walked a block without saying anything, then Gwen heaved a deep sigh. "I feel really awkward about this," Gwen said.

"About what?" asked Peter, his blood a riot, wondering if maybe things weren't as over as he had thought they were.

"About all this gooshy crap to get close to you, Parker," Gwen said, and as she looked at Peter her pupils flared yellow and catlike then resumed their disguise.

Peter's blood ran cold. "You said I'd never see you again," he said breathlessly.

"No," she corrected, "I said I'd walk away. And I did. But I've found out something you want to know about. I've found out something about your powers. We can tussle here in the street," she said with a gesture, "or we can keep going like normal people and you can hear what I have to say."

"Drop your disguise," Peter said flatly. "You don't deserve to wear her face. I have half a mind to take you apart right here with my bare hands. You have nothing that can interest me."

"Is that so?" Gwen's face asked him, arching an eyebrow, her smile cruel.

His fist darted out and snapped into her chest, flinging her across the empty street. She thudded into the wall of an apartment building and sprawled forward on the sidewalk on her hands and knees. She fought for air, fought unconsciousness, trying not to vomit on the sidewalk.

"Leave me alone or there's harder hits where that came from," Peter called softly across the street. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets and marched home without a look back. He radiated tightly controlled anger.

"Okay," she wheezed, "we… do it… the hard… way…" A pudgy hand thrust itself down into her field of vision.

Mystique squinted up at Faber where he stood expressionless, his hand extended to her. She took his hand and he helped her to her feet. He shook his head slightly and looked after Peter.

Peter went home, kissed Aunt May goodnight, and went to his room. All thoughts of calculus were abandoned. He lay on his back in bed, his fingers meshed behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

Mystique back. His mind raced. Not again. Please not her again. What was he going to do?

Sleep was a long time coming.


	36. Powerless

**Thursday, December 12**

It was long after midnight when Peter's breathing became deep and even. Mystique silently climbed the side of the house until she reached his window. She silently popped the screen off and hung it from her belt. Ever so gently, she pushed the window up two inches and she slid the blowgun tube to line up with Peter's neck. He stirred in his sleep, approaching awareness as a chill breeze breathed through the room.

Then she puffed, the dart zipped out and smacked into his neck. Drug delivered. She dropped the screen to the ground, then tossed the window open the rest of the way and moved fast, dropping into the room and buckling a rope with an attachment around Peter's chest. She lugged him to the window and lowered him on the rope, down to the ground. He wore sweats and a sweatshirt, even in bed. Peter was lowered all the way to the ground when the portly man in dark clothes stepped out of the bushes and knelt by him.

Faber's forehead creased with concentration. He put one hand on Peter's abdomen, and another on his forehead, and he focused. He buckled down and applied his will, his strength of mind and heart. For an agonizing second he was motionless. Then he rocked back to his seat, and looked up. He nodded briefly. Mystique grinned and hauled Peter back up.

Seconds later, Peter was snugly back in his bed. Mystique collected the dart and slithered out the window.

All was quiet, and the night was again undisturbed.

**xXx**

The knocking on the door took on a fresh sense of urgency as Peter fought his way to consciousness. "Gnu?" he managed.

"Peter," Aunt May said, her voice a bit worried, "are you ready to go yet?"

Peter blinked his bleary eyes and looked over at the clock.

"We need to go in twenty minutes," Aunt May said.

"Guh!" Peter said, and he rolled out of bed. Overslept by hours. Missed the alarm going off for an hour until it automatically shut itself off. He felt like his head was wrapped in cotton.

"I'll be out in a minute," he slurred to Aunt May.

"Alright Peter," she said. She headed down the stairs.

Peter groaned. "I missed racquetball with Harry," he managed. "He's gonna kill me."

Peter pulled off his sweats, pulled on jeans and a shirt, felt like his muscles were made of water, his head of sand. He was moving in slow motion. "He woulda kicked my butt anyway." He shook his head to clear it.

"What a night," he muttered. "Ow." Dressed, he stumbled to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

First he sucked on his tongue and spat in the sink and get rid of excess spider tracer. Sniffed. No scent. He sniffed his breath, breathing into his cupped hand. He just had normal morning breath.

"Now that's odd," he muttered to himself. Then he quickly brushed his teeth, still feeling like he was moving in slow motion.

He headed to the stairs, hopped at them, and his foot slid out from under him. He thudded down on his rear end and fell down three stairs, thud thud thud. He froze in utter shock as he sat on the stairs, real pain darting through his frame, his legs tingling.

"I just _fell down the stairs_," Peter said breathlessly, full of wonder. "And it _hurt._"

He bounded up and stared at the steps, shaking and his eyes wide. Aunt May ran from the kitchen to the living room.

"Are you alright, Peter?" she said.

"Fine," he said, "just slipped." He tried to smile.

"You had a spill, you should go to the doctor, make sure nothing's broken," Aunt May said.

"Not to worry," he said with a brave smile. "You ready to go?"

"All packed," she nodded.

"Great!" he said, and he scooped up her two heavy suitcases.

He stumbled, and adjusted their weight.

They were _heavy._

Just then, the taxi honked outside. Peter tried on a smile for Aunt May and he hauled at the suitcases with the effort he normally would put into tossing a car. He managed to get down the front steps without killing himself.

He muscled the suitcases into the trunk and shut it, then hopped into the taxi next to Aunt May.

**xXx**

"Have a good time in Florida, pretty lady," Peter said as he smiled at Aunt May standing outside the boarding area.

"Peter, you're pale, and sweaty," Aunt May said. "Are you sure it's alright for me to go?" she asked, worry creasing her face.

"I'm gonna miss you, that's all," Peter said. "And I think I'm coming down with something. We have enough chicken soup to reconstruct a chicken. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I will go to the doctor if I'm not better by tomorrow, I swear. Now will you go and soak up some sun for your favorite nephew?" He almost managed a grin.

"Thank you, Peter," she said, tightly squeezing his hand as her eyes shone with unshed tears. "Thank you for everything."

He cleared his throat and glanced around, feeling suddenly awkward. "It's the least I could do," he said, and he pulled her into a hug. She gave him a squeeze a few seconds later, and leaned back.

"I'll be back on the twenty third," she said.

"I got it," Peter said, fishing out his photocopy of her flight information. "I'll be here with bells on." He smiled.

"I suppose that's all," she said. "You got my instructions for taking care of everything while I'm gone?"

"The full volume is at home on the shelf," Peter said. "I can manage! Go! Have a great time! Don't take any wooden nickels!"

She waved to him one last time as she headed through the metal detectors, then she was in the boarding area where Peter could not follow. He smiled to himself, turned, and looked through the crowd.

It felt silent to him. The throb of hundreds of voices swelled around him, punctuated by the public address system and the occasional laugh or shout. But he felt oddly silent.

Usually he would catch a whiff of a man's perfume, he would know who was around him at what ranges, he would be filled with an onrush of details like the stain on the wall and what caused it, how far from the destination, his senses ferreting information out of his surroundings and pouring it wholesale into his head. He had trained himself, learned to ignore it, learned to only pick out the anomalies or dangerous threads of the net of senses that surrounded him. But now… he was alone in his head.

"I have no idea what time it is," he said softly; no sense tracked his heartbeat and gauged its speed against the atomic clock.

He felt very cold as he realized that he was reduced the senses, reflexes, and strength of a normal young man.

He stumbled through the crowd in time to reach the bathroom. He staggered into the men's room and into a stall, and then he vomited into the stool. He managed to push himself up to a standing position, and he rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

He looked at his hand. Turned it over. Unbuttoned his sleeve and pulled it up.

His spinnerets were scabbing. He picked at the scab, trying to ignore the pain of digging at his sensitive organ. He prodded at his forearm.

Peter's webbing was being reabsorbed by his blood.

He sat on the stool. He noticed the chill in the bathroom. It never used to be cold. Anywhere.

"It's a good thing I've got to take a cab back," he murmured to himself as he shivered. He thought of the roads; deprived of his senses and reflexes, he would have to learn to drive all over again.

For a moment, his very normality threatened to overwhelm him. He felt a crushing sense of vulnerability, realizing if he was mugged he could very well be hurt or killed. He realized he could move no faster than his build implied. He realized he was not pretending to be normal, but it was the real deal.

"I lost my powers," he whispered, fear shot through his voice. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as dark despair welled under him.

Mystique. Last night. Couldn't be a coincidence. "She said something about my powers," he murmured to himself, and his forehead creased.

He wavered between resolve and despair, sitting on the toilet in the airport. The choice was his.

Peter took a deep breath. "I lost my powers," he said to himself, "but that doesn't mean I'm powerless. I have _got_ to get to the bottom of this."

Unsteadily, he pushed himself off the seat and stepped out of the stall.

**xXx**

"Right about now he'll be losing his cabbage," Mystique said, inspecting her nails. "Under all that power, he's just a kid. Now you have the sole control over whether he gets his power back or not. As far as he knows, you can control whether he _keeps_ his power when you give it back. It's been a pleasure, but I think our business is concluded."

"Don't be a stranger," Fisk rumbled. "Is your business in New York concluded? Perhaps I can be of assistance if there is anything else."

"Parker was a special case," she said airily. "He crossed me once. I feel much appeased by taking away his power and putting him within your control. My work here is done. Don't have me followed."

He just smiled at her. It seemed he wasn't quite able to take his eyes off her.

"Until next time," she said, and she strode out of his office, slipping into her pale form with dark hair.

She half expected to be attacked on the way out, her usefulness ended. Instead, she reached the street in one piece. She identified the three tails following her, and she headed down an alley. A bag lady came out the other side. Halfway down the block, she was a meter maid. She had even brought along a ticket pad in case of this eventuality. She pulled out the pad and started writing a ticket, her hair blonde and her figure perky. One of her followers walked right past her, alertly searching for her in the crowd.

She looked around, noting she was only a few blocks away from the police station where she had accosted Peter the last time she had been in town. She narrowed her eyes.

"I have what I came for," she mused. "Why am I still here?" Then she nodded to herself. "Of course. It's not enough to _know_. I want to _see_ Parker groveling. And," she added with a small smile, "maybe rub it in a little." She thought of him, helpless to detect or defend against her. The thought sent shivers of delight up and down her spine.

She swiftly jimmied a car door, dropped into it, and hotwired it in seconds. Then she headed for Peter Parker's house.


	37. Break

Peter sat in the student union, his eyes shut tight. His bag was on the seat next to him. He wasn't moving.

The connected booth shifted as someone sat down opposite him. "Peter, listen," said Mary Jane.

"I thought we went over this," Peter said quietly, his eyes still clenched shut.

"No, you gotta hear me out," she said, nerves in her voice. "Peter, Harry's dad is dead."

Peter opened his eyes. "What?" he said.

She nodded. "He was experimenting with some chemical mix when somehow the fume hood was breached, he breathed some of it in. Made his brain pop, basically. Heart blew out. Whatever it was, that stuff was chemical death. The funeral is Sunday."

"Wow," Peter said softly. "How is Harry taking it?"

"He's a wreck," Mary Jane said, leaning back. She looked tired. "He's at his aunt's place, dug in and brooding right now."

"I gotta go see him," Peter said to himself.

"Good luck," she said, her voice subdued.

"Can you give me directions?" Peter asked.

"I can go one better," she said. "Want a ride?"

Minutes later, they were sitting in her car, headed out of the campus. The car was full of awkward silence for a minute as Mary Jane got out into the city's traffic stream.

Peter cleared his throat. "Mary Jane," he said, "my powers are gone."

"What?" she said, swerving a bit as her head whipped around to look at him.

"Eyes on the road," he said, his voice tense. "I woke up this morning a normal average guy."

A moment of silence stretched out forever. She blinked.

"That's good, right?" she said. "Now nobody has a reason to come after you and screw up your life. You don't have anything to hide. Life further back from the edge, huh?" There was wonder in her voice.

His eyes filled with unshed tears as he looked at her. He opened his mouth, then closed it. "I can't believe," he said softly, "you know me so little." He bowed his head. "My power caused me trouble, yes. But I always got more than I lost, if you know what I mean. And I was wrong. I'm not a normal average guy. The normal average guy out there," he said, fighting against the bitterness that crept into his voice, "doesn't know what he's missing. Has never done what I have done. I'm not sure I can ever be whole. In me," he said, touching his chest, "there's a scar where my incredible abilities once were."

"Then, maybe," she said, "you need to get your powers back." She looked over at him and tried a smile. "What happened?"

Peter narrowed his eyes. "I don't know what happened, but I know who does. When I'm done talking to Harry it's time to put a plan together."

"I'll help you," Mary Jane said promptly. "Say the word, I'll do it."

"Here's the word," he said. "No. This is too dangerous for me, and I can't allow anyone else to face what I'm up against. You don't understand. You cross this woman's path just once and she has it in for you for the rest of your life, even if you didn't do hardly anything. Besides, she might be done with me and headed out of town, but for all I know she's got a goon hiding in the trunk and she's about to scoop us up with an electromagnet from a helicopter. There's just no predicting what she'll do."

"What, are you her press agent?" Mary Jane said, her voice tight.

"MJ, this is the woman that impersonated me and broke Gwen's heart. This woman ended my relationship with Gwen because she was just annoyed at Peter Parker. She's the one that said all those nasty things about you and Harry to Gwen, when you spent that whole night over at her house to kill me in case I showed up. I wasn't lying when I said I was innocent in that whole affair. That's what we're facing. And I can't let you get her thinking vengeful thoughts in your direction, see?"

Mary Jane was quiet for a long, long moment. "I wasn't able to believe that somebody else was talking to Gwen that night," she said. "I would have sworn it was you. Gwen was convinced it was someone else, but I couldn't imagine it. Of course, I couldn't imagine you could cling to walls or make webbing." She lapsed into silence, then shook her head. "Is there really a shapeshifter after you?"

"Either that," Peter said deliberately, "or I tore Gwen's heart out myself. Can you believe that?"

"I used to be so sure it was you," Mary Jane said, "but now that I know you better I know you would never say those things to her."

"Before you didn't believe me. Now you do. Trust me on this, it's the same with this shapeshifter. Believe me now. Save yourself heartache later. Let me do this alone."

"Okay," she relented. "But if you need anything, anything at all, call me." She looked over into his eyes.

"I promise I'll call if there's something I need that you can help me with," he said.

"We're almost there," Mary Jane said as they took the exit.

**xXx**

Peter walked into the dim musty room. He could faintly hear a woman sobbing nearby. He glanced around the baroque decoration style. Heavy curtains reduced the pale sunlight outside to a few thin rays. Harry Osborn sat on a couch, dressed in a suit, listless.

"Hey Harry," Peter said.

Harry looked up. "Sorry I couldn't make it to racquetball this morning." His voice was flat and empty.

"Forget about it," Peter said. "How are you holding up?"

Harry's eyes were reddened, listless, dull. "I should have known you'd show up," he reflected.

"Of course," Peter said. "Your dad… this must be a terrible shock for you, Harry."

"MJ brought you," Harry said as a statement of fact.

"Yes, she's out in the foyer or lobby or whatever."

"I've had a lot on my mind lately," Harry said, staring at Peter with unwavering eyes. "I hear you've been keeping her warm for me."

There was a long, cold moment of silence.

"Harry," Peter said, "no. That is entirely not true. I haven't touched her. I won't, as long as she's with you. Come on, man, I'm not like that."

"But you want to," Harry said, his gaze unwavering.

Peter knelt by his knee. "Listen to me," he said. "You're my friend, my best friend. I know about the sacrifices you had to make to keep me on as a roomie, and I know I haven't been the best friend to you. But I wouldn't do that. I won't do that." He looked into Harry's eyes. Harry looked back, his stare small and mean.

Peter slowly stood. "If there's anything I can do for you, Harry," he said, pain in his voice, "let me know."

"Because it won't cost you," Harry said abruptly.

Peter blinked. "What?"

"People like you," Harry said. "You sail through life. Whatever comes, you just take it in stride, overcome it, move past it. Nothing slows you down. Nothing hits you where it hurts. So you can offer whatever you want. The consequences will never connect."

Peter felt himself trembling. He forcibly reminded himself that Harry was talking through pain, that the nastiness in his eyes was his reaction to being bereaved. He fought to breathe.

"Everybody has pain, Harry," Peter said, withdrawing as much as he could. "Each of us gets to decide what we do with tragedy. Whether it makes us stronger or weaker." He hesitated. "Do you want me to come to the funeral?"

Harry looked away and bit his lip. His auburn mat of wiry hair was in disarray, his face hollow as though he had not been eating. He looked even more pixielike than usual. When he looked back at Peter, his eyes were deep and dark.

"Yes," he whispered.

Peter squeezed his shoulder. "Then I'll be there," he said softly. He reached the doorway.

"Peter," Harry said. Peter stopped, and turned to look at him.

Harry's face was pale, framed against the dark couch, in shadow. His eyes were magnetic. "Peter, I know. I know you weren't wearing your seat belt."

They looked into each other's eyes, and Peter shivered. He turned away and quickly left the room.

Peter walked out the door and came face to face with Mary Jane.

She stood, her mouth tight, tears welling up in her eyes, a mixture of pain and fury on her features. She grabbed his arm, her grip fierce, and she took the shortest route possible out of the mourning house, out to the chill of the front yard. She walked to where she parked on the extensive driveway and stood by her car, staring at the ground.

"I'm breaking up with him, that's not even a question," Mary Jane said. "I can't believe the way he talks to his friends." She gritted her teeth and looked away from Peter, across the lawn. "I can't believe the way he's been talking to me. It just isn't worth it any more, Peter."

Peter shifted awkwardly on his feet. "Harry's grieving right now, he's got a lot on his mind," Peter said.

"That he does," Mary Jane said softly, still gazing out over the broad expanse of dying grass. "And when you were at the bottom, with Aunt May in the hospital and no car and no money and screwed up finances, I remember picking you up, the first thing out of your mouth was to ask how Harry was doing." She looked him in the eye. "At the time I was amazed that even in the middle of everything else you cared about somebody else."

"It's not that simple," Peter said, uncomfortable.

"Yes it is," she said. She brushed tears away with the back of her hand and sniffled. "I have some business to tend to, if you'll excuse me," she said, stiffly formal. She strode back to the house.

Peter looked up at the sky as he leaned back on the car. "Oh, man," he breathed. "What am I going to do?" He felt truly torn. Should she stay with Harry even if she didn't want to? Why would she do that? How responsible was he for their falling out? Could he in good conscience…

He shook his head. Shivered. The cold sank through his thin coat. He realized that he was a mere mortal, and the cold penetrated deeper. He thought of the times that Aunt May told him to wear a coat and he finally understood why.

Less than ten minutes, the front door banged open and Mary Jane came out, striding fast, her head down. She opened the car door, popped the locks, and slung herself down into the car. Peter sat next to her, and looked over at her with some concern.

"Let's go," she gritted out. Her eyes were smeary red, and already tears had almost frozen on her cheeks.

As the car tore out of parking and swerved around the other expensive cars parked at the house, Peter was at a loss for words.


	38. Bait

"Did it take?" Fisk asked, his voice spreading from him and filling the room.

Ledge kicked back in a chair and lit up a cigarette. He put his feet up on the table. "He fell down the steps this morning and horked in the toilet at the airport. I'd say either he's powerless or he's a really good actor. He's been walking around like a twitchy rabbit."

"Good," Fisk nodded. "Mystique has not yet left town. Follow Parker. It should be easy now that his…enhancements are deactivated. When Mystique makes her move on him, find out what she wants and capture them both."

"Capture?" Ledge said skeptically.

"Alive," Fisk specified.

Ledge clenched his jaw and scowled. "That's a lot harder. Double my usual fee."

"Done," Fisk said with a wave of his hand. "Do not fail. Your status as my retainer is on the line here."

Ledge just grinned. "Yeah, okay," he said. "I'm on the case."

**xXx**

Mary Jane pulled up to a stop at the school. She turned and looked at Peter, putting her arm over the back of the seat.

"I want you, Peter Parker," she said solemnly. "I want to be there for you."

"I can't," Peter said. "Not yet. Once I've finished out this business with my powers, once I've taken care of the threats that are looming over me right now, _then._ I'm not a free man. I need space."

She looked him in the eye for a long second, then nodded. "Don't make me wait," she said.

He nodded and stepped out of the car, shut the door, walked up the steps to the quad. She pulled away and drove around the corner.

Peter hurried to the student union, his head down, lost in thought.

"MJ is my dream, I've wanted her since I met her," he muttered to himself. "But I didn't want her to break up with Harry like this." He shook his head. "I don't even know what I think. I sure don't know how much say I have with MJ and Harry. I feel like I'm in the middle but can't pull on the ends." He realized he was listening. He also realized that he was entirely talking to himself. "And me without my spider advocate," he said. He almost smiled, but he couldn't quite manage it.

"Great," he muttered. "I'm lonely without the voices in my head. Heh."

Somehow, the joke wasn't funny.

"Time to come up with some kind of plan to deal with Mystique," he muttered. He closed his eyes and focused. Tried to think up a plan. He sorely missed the lightning fast calculations of his thoughts, he felt like he was pushing through cotton trying to focus enough to come up with a plan to deal with Mystique and regain his powers.

Even without his spider mind, he was a smart kid. Peter smiled to himself as the edges of a plan began to form.

"She'll be watching the house," he murmured. "Okay." He pulled out his check card and kissed it with a grin. "Let's make us a trap," he whispered.

**xXx**

Fisk sat alone in the cavernous board room when his telephone softly warbled. He picked it up, not saying anything.

"This is Ledge, she's staking out his house. She is even using the vantage I'd use. Balcony, second story of a house down the block. It's a good view, and the occupants probably don't even know she's there. A good blind setup."

"Parker eluded his tail," Fisk rumbled.

"So which one do you want me to follow?" Ledge asked, trying not to sound annoyed.

"Parker," Fisk said. "Wherever he goes, she will find him."

"Fine," Ledge said. "Just fine. How about I get started looking?"

"That would be advisable," Fisk said. He hung up, and the door opened allowing a troop of underbosses and lieutenants. Fisk smiled benignly at them as they convened to do business.

Outside, night settled on a city that was very, very quiet.

Friday, December 13 

Peter leaned against the light pole, watching the sun rise. "Freaky Friday, Friday the thirteenth," he murmured to himself. "A day for turning the tables. The planets must be aligned." He slowly exhaled, looking at the world through a plume of his own breath. "I can't lose," he said softly.

His hands were shaking, and he was more tired than he had been in months. He pushed off the pole and took a step to the pay phone. He dropped in his change.

**xXx**

Mystique was instantly awake, listening to the bug she had placed in the Parker living room. Phone ringing. The answering machine picked up. Bla bla bla, leave a message. Mystique waited with a pencil and a pad of paper.

"Yeah, Mystique," came Parker's voice on the machine. "I'm running out of time, but before they get me there's something you should know. I'll meet you in the parking garage behind the Sam's Club, here's the address."

She started scribbling as he rattled it off. "Second floor, northwest interior row. Look for a U-Haul. We should be able to meet safely enough in there."

Mystique grinned, stood. She holstered her silvered plasma pistol. Then she slung on her heavy duster. Time to go. Sounded like a trap, but it would be all the more sweet to let him fail before taunting him.

**xXx**

Ledge jerked awake as his radio blared. "Ledge! I'm watching the Parker place. Mystique just got a call inviting her to a meeting with Parker. Here's the scoop."

As the lowlife started reading off the directions, Ledge didn't even bother writing them down, he memorized them. Nodded to himself. He fired up the car and kicked into gear.


	39. Origin

Mystique stood at the end of the parking garage level, looking at the U-Haul box truck that was backed into a parking spot in the otherwise abandoned building. The levels were ramps, staggered, and the truck was at the bottom of the second level. Mystique took a drag on her thin, expensive cigarette and approached, her coat flaring behind her. She shifted to become a blonde.

She reached the truck. The back was slightly open. She heard a faint groan. Hopping up on the back fender, she maneuvered with her back to the rusty cables that acted as a safety rail. She moved into the back of the truck without having to squeeze past the support pillar right behind the truck.

She saw a figure sprawled on the floor. She moved to touch his leg. It was cold, hard; a mannequin?

The U-Haul's engine rumbled to life, and it was kicked into gear and slammed back. The doors were crushed shut on the support pillar.

"Cute," Mystique muttered, alone in the back of the truck with a dummy.

A walkie talkie flared static. She knelt and picked it up. "Great, Parker," she said. "And for my next trick I'm going to blow you away for this." To emphasize her point, she tugged out her plasma pistol and pulled the trigger. With a hissing whine, it fired out a streak that knocked a volleyball sized hole in the wall, through where the driver's head should be, through some of the steering wheel, the windshield. The hole let a shaft of light in. Smoke from the blast curled in the light as the walkie talkie crackled.

"Thanks for coming," said Peter. "And thanks in advance for helping me get my powers back."

"You're a dead man," she said, her voice cool.

"Well," he said, "since I can't seem to get you to leave me alone, I realized I was going to have to do something more drastic." Another heavy engine flared to life outside.

"I hope you enjoyed your run," she said into the walkie talkie. "I'm about to cut a hole out of here, reload, and vaporize you."

"Big talk," Peter said. With a clang, a pre-cut oval of truck roofing fell down into the interior. Mystique blinked at it.

Then the concrete truck's chute lined up over it. Her eyes widened and she jumped back as wet concrete slopped down the guide ramp and slapped down on the floor of the truck in a thick, fast column. She fired, blasting the guide ramp to fragments. The concrete still poured out, slathering the roof of the truck, and pouring in at about the same speed.

She blasted a hole in the wall of the truck, and poked her head out. She saw that the truck had backed up on the higher tier of the parking garage, lined up with the truck top on the lower tier. Clever. She didn't see Parker. She pulled her head back in and stepped to the middle of the truck. Two more blasts made a hole big enough for her to leap through as a diver, after the metal had a few seconds to cool. She holstered the gun and readied herself to spring.

Peter stood up from under where she'd shot her holes. She whipped out her gun, lined up on him--

Peter tucked the stock of the shotgun into his shoulder and pulled the trigger without hesitation. The solid slug tore out of the shotgun and blew clean through the plasma pistol's trigger guard, shattering the gun and Mystique's hand and forearm. She let out a piercing shriek and tumbled backward, landing heavily at the edge of the piling mass of concrete in the truck. Blood sprayed.

Peter dropped the shotgun with a clatter and started dragging something heavy and metal. Mystique rolled up on her knees, cradling the steadily gushing stump of her arm. She tried to talk, but the pain was simply unbearable, and she struggled to seal the wound by shapeshifting. Violated flesh trebled the pain, trying to respond. All she could manage was a thin whine of absolute agony.

"Thought you might try that," Peter said mildly. "You just sit tight now." He hauled up a thin sheet of steel and banged it against the hole she had shot. He quickly clamped it in place and lit up the welder he had brought along.

Mystique choked on the thick concrete dust in the air, the acrid stench of the welder, the coppery stink of her own blood. Her eyes were burning, her flesh on fire with pure pain from her shattered arm. She struggled with the walkie talkie with her remaining hand. "Let's talk about this," she gasped as the welder burned the plate to the side of the truck, over the hole.

"What," Peter said, "You going to offer to walk away again? We tried that. Didn't work for me, you came back and took my powers away. You're too costly to me. You cost me my woman, you almost cost me a mentor, you've put me in a lot of tough spots. Now I'm usually willing to let bygones be bygones," he said as he finished half the weld. He started on the other half. The plate wasn't coming off.

"But you see, now you've taken my powers," he said, shaking his head. "You shouldn't have done that. I'm going to stop you now. Don't worry about the police showing up. The buildings on this block are pretty much abandoned; anybody who heard anything didn't hear anything, if you take my meaning."

"Why not just shoot me?" she asked.

He laughed. "I wanted to give you a chance to tell me what you told Fisk."

"How about something I didn't tell Fisk?" she asked desperately.

She heard him moving something outside. "Getting warmer," he said.

"I know how you got your power," she said quickly.

"Oh, that again. Never mind," Peter said. He clambered up into the cab and slapped a plate up over the back of the driver's compartment where she had blasted another hole.

"I did intelligence work for the Third Reich during the Second World War," she said quickly.

Peter did not begin welding. He scooted the plate to the side. "How old _are_ you?" he asked.

"I was working for Hitler directly," she said. "I spent much of the war behind Allied lines gathering intelligence and conducting espionage. I should have recognized your powers sooner. If I tell you the rest, will you let me go?"

"Only if you help me get my powers back," he said. "After that, we'll be even and if you think you need to come after me then it's your funeral. We're not messing around here anymore," he cautioned her.

"I gathered," she said dryly. "Will you stop the cement?"

"No," he said. "Talk fast. And don't lie to me."

"No need for that," she said wryly. "In this case, the truth is _much_ too entertaining."

From the other end of the parking lot, Ledge opened up the channel to Fisk's office and aimed the listening device.

Mystique focused for a moment. Her skin rippled blue, her hair straight and crimson. When she opened her eyes they were pale and empty. "Please excuse me," she said, "I need the energy to prevent bleeding to death. Now, Der Fuhrer was livid towards the end of the war. Captain America was making a real mess of things."

"There really was a Captain America?" Peter said, his voice hushed.

"Oh yes," Mystique nodded. "He was a monster. He could pound through twenty men armed with machine guns, using nothing more than his shield. One blow from him could cripple. I never had the misfortune to confront him directly, but I spent some considerable time and energy cleaning up after him and assisting in efforts to resist him." She glanced over her shoulder at the building tide of concrete.

"To make a long story short," she said, "Hitler collected to himself a large number of artifacts reputed to have some magical properties, and he had mystics and scientists working around the clock to figure out how to make him super soldiers, weapons of mass destruction, whatever. Any edge to win the damnable war. At the time the focus was on building a super soldier to do what the Red Skull could not; stop Captain America and put one of ours, much like him, on British or American soil."

"I still can't believe you're a Nazi, for real," Peter said.

"Don't make me prove it," she murmured, her eyes narrowing.

"No no, go on," Peter said.

"Doctor Rhalladon swore he succeeded in building a super soldier for the Red Skull," Mystique continued. "Even I do not know where it came from, but he managed to find a rock he called a Darkstone. The more prolonged the exposure of a mortal creature to it, the more it warped them and gave them power. His initial test subjects grew very powerful very quickly then went utterly mad."

Peter felt cold as his mind began to grasp what she was implying.

"Rhalladon was in the second phase of testing as the war was grinding to a halt," she continued. "Petrol had run out, and the armies were being driven back. The allies were within Germany's borders. Rhalladon was oblivious. He discovered that by putting the Darkstone with an animal, then allowing the altered animal to bite a human, the power was transferred in a more stable way. The power was less, but the subject did not go stark screaming mad."

She sighed. "A handful of soldiers that had been bitten by an altered wolf attacked the Allies, caught them off guard and did untold damage before they were gunned down. There simply wasn't enough time to put the animals with the stone, because only one animal at a time could be with the stone or they tore each other to pieces, restraints or no."

She flicked her hair and looked him right in the eye. "I know this story so well because I was a part of it. I was assigned by the Fuhrer himself to keep an eye on the project and steal it when it was complete, for otherwise he knew the Red Skull would take that power for his own and possibly wrest control of the Third Reich to himself. Those days stank of desperation and gunpowder and shattered concrete, dull roar continual in the background from bombers, riots, fighting in the streets, artillery. Rhalladon put the Darkstone in a puzzlebox with a false bottom, and he put a spider in the box. A few days would have to do, and the resulting bitten soldier could possibly save Rhalladon himself. I was positioned to make my move."  
She frowned. "Before I could get the box, a double agent who had infiltrated the Red Skull's retinue shot Rhalladon in cold blood and escaped with the box and the stone and, incidentally, the spider." She looked Peter in the eye. "His name was Forrest Parker."

"Wow," Peter said softly. He tried to imagine having a grandfather who had infiltrated the mythical Red Skull's organization and stolen a human weapon project.

"I thought he passed the box off to Army Intelligence, so I went after the Intelligence agent. The fool was killed by shrapnel and before I could reach him his body fell into the river. I searched for the puzzle box, all while Forrest Parker was busy escaping with it. He must have known we couldn't let him live after that. He shipped the box home, and a top secret package to Army Intelligence. We intercepted the top secret package, and within was nothing but some battle plans and film."

She shrugged. "By the time the trunk reached America the war in Europe was over and Hitler was dead. Our power in America was fragmented at best. I got to America as soon as I could extricate myself from other difficulties, but the trail was cold. No one knew what happened to the trunk that was sent to his military base. That's because it wasn't sent there, he sent it to his son. And of course no one knew of the Darkstone. The Red Skull had disappeared and his files were burned behind him. It simply wasn't worth it to me to try to break into Army Intelligence for the information. So," she said with a nod, "to be honest with you, over the decades I forgot about it."

"Until now," Peter breathed.

She nodded. "Until now. Fisk did a background check into your grandfather. I asked a friend of mine to monitor a certain number of files in the Pentagon when I got into a position to ask for such things. Forrest Parker was a red flag. It wasn't complicated to put 'Forrest Parker' and 'Peter Parker' together, realize the connection of the 'spider ghost,' as you put it. When we conducted the experiments, one or maybe two traits were passed along." She eyed him carefully. "Your spider stewed with the Darkstone for decades. And look at how magnificent your power is now."

Peter disappeared from view, and she heard him move around the truck and dump the welding gear. Then he scrambled up to the next tier and shut off the flow of concrete. It had flowed into the truck, a sloppy tide less than a foot short of where she was backed up to the wall. Peter appeared at the roof oval that was cut out.

"Wade over here and I'll pull you out," he said. She slogged through the concrete, and reached up with her remaining hand. He reached down and grasped her arm, then hauled with all his might and pulled her out.

They sprawled on the roof of the truck, both amply smeared in wet concrete.

"This is disgusting," Mystique said, looking down at herself and at Peter.

"Best I could come up with on short notice," Peter shrugged. "Why did you stick around? Was there something else you were supposed to do to me, or were you just planning to gloat?"

"I don't feel I need to grace that with a response."

She inspected him. "I would not have guessed that you are the Nazi super soldier designed to take down Captain America."

Me either," Peter said, and he jumped from the roof of the truck to the ledge of the higher level, then climbed down to the side of the U-Haul. Mystique followed.

"I still can't get over the idea that my power is evil," Peter mused.

"Have you not felt urges, compunctions that were… a bit dark?" she said, remembering long ago.

"I have fought them," he shrugged. "I am in control. _Everybody_ fights dark urges." He looked at her. "Did your powers come from this experiment?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I told you, I was already working for the Third Reich long before this whole experiment cropped up."

"So how did you come by your abilities?"

"Nosy boy, quiet," she said. "None of your business."

Peter scratched the back of his head as he surveyed the mess. "I called the cops and told them the vehicles were stolen," he said. "Let's just leave this mess here."

"Good plan," said Ledge. He stepped out from behind a column forty feet away, between them and the exit. "The concrete is a nice touch. I hate to admit this, but I'm supposed to take the pair of you alive. So you'd better surrender. Right now."

Peter dove for the discarded shotgun, but Ledge moved faster. He flicked his hand, and a weight the size of a roll of quarters hissed through the air and caught him behind the ear. It rebounded almost straight up as Peter crashed to the ground and slid, unconscious.

"Ouch," Ledge winced with a bit of a grin. "Okay, toots, you were in the attic. You got the Darkstone. I bet you have it on your person right now, don't you." He walked closer, within fifteen feet.

She glared at him hatefully for a few seconds. "It… It's in a protective case," she said.

"Hand it over," Ledge said, his voice cold.

She fumbled in her coat with her one hand, then slid a box that looked like a ring case to him. He knelt and picked it up. Smiling to himself, he tilted it open.

The flash popped at painful intensity and he swore as he dropped the case, feeling like two hot skewers had been stuffed through his eyes. Mystique was moving. She had Peter Parker, and she darted to the edge of the garage. Only the second floor. She guided their fall, crashing down into a bush. Torn and bleeding, they tumbled out, Peter reviving in a concussion stupor.

Less than thirty feet to reach her car. She slung the half conscious Peter into the car, hopped in, fired it up, and roared away. Ledge took some pot shots at them from the balcony, but trying to see was pain. He roared frustration as they drove out of range.

"Whuzza plan?" Peter managed.

"Once I get your powers back I'm free of you," Mystique gritted out, fighting the pain of driving with one hand. The jarring impacts and muscle use were not doing her shattered gun arm any favors. "A man named Harlan Faber stole your powers. You have to be unconscious, then he does something, then you gain or lose access to your powers."

"It is reversible then?" Peter slurred.

"He did it to me," she said grimly. She glanced over at him. "You sure you want your evil Nazi powers back?"

"Yeah," he said, leaning back. "I'm sure. How are we going to find Faber?"

"I gathered that he doesn't spend all his time with Fisk," Mystique said, "And I'll bet he's a listed number with an address in the phone book." She pulled over to a curb where there was a phone book.

Sure enough, he was.


	40. Reset

They parked at the base of the steps that led up to the house that overlooked the bay. Mystique reached under her seat and came up with a small pistol.

"Isn't that like a .22?" Peter said, restraining a smile.

"Easy to conceal, is what it is," she said. "And if a normal person gets lippy with me, I love this gun. The bullet doesn't go through them, see. It bounces around inside," she said, looking him in the eye, "then lodges in them requiring surgery to remove. Stopping power? No. But they'll remember it longer." She flashed him a smile and got out of the car. He followed her.

After a trek up three flights of stairs, she banged on Faber's front door. Then she rammed it with her shoulder, bursting it open. Peter was surprised at her strength, then he thought back to when they had fought. Well, not so surprised after all…

Faber tottered into the hallway from the bedroom, wrapped in a bathrobe. His eyes got very wide.

"Restore his powers," Mystique said, leveling her gun at him, "or else."

He sighed and shook his head. He raised a finger, indicating that they should wait a minute, then headed back into his bedroom. Peter closed the front door.

"Think he's trying to get away?" Peter asked.

"No," Mystique said. "He knows we won't kill him. And Fisk isn't worth dying for. We have him at a disadvantage. He'll do this."

Faber came out of the bedroom with a syringe. Peter sat on the couch, Faber put him out. Faber stretched the young man out on the floor and looked at Mystique. She nodded curtly. Faber shrugged, and bent his concentration once more.

**xXx**

Mystique supported Peter out the front door. "How do you feel?" she said.

"Better," he nodded. "My concussion is going away. I can feel my power… coming back." He bent over slightly, pressing his forearms into his torso. "Damn my arms itch."

"What?"

"Making web," he said curtly. He let out a choked little laugh. "It's coming back to me."

She lined the pistol up with his forehead. "Then our truce is over."

He looked her in the eye. "If it's like that, pull the trigger," he said softly. "If I'm wrong, just shoot me now. But if I'm right," he said, "then you saved me from Ledge because you want to get Fisk back for what he tried to do to you, and you figure I'm your only way to do that without getting your remaining hand dirty."

She grinned at him. "I like you," she said. "You've got… spunk," she said. "Kick his ass."

Then she trotted down the stairs, holstering her gun. She got into her car and started it, heading down the street. Peter watched her drive down the road that paralleled the lapping waters of the bay.

She had gone three blocks when the engine sputtered and died. She tried to start it. Peter's eyes widened as he saw Ledge step out to the street behind the car from an alleyway, discarding a trigger box. Ledge pulled out two guns.

Mystique didn't spot him until his heel crashed through her window and slammed across the side of her head, knocking her sideways on the seat. Ledge pulled his leg back from the perfectly executed kick, and pointed both guns at Mystique at point blank range, with the car hampering her movements. He grinned.

"Step out of the car," he said. Nicely. She noticed his eyes were bloodshot.

She opened the car and stepped out, and he stayed fifteen feet from her. More than close enough to surgically cut her to ribbons with bullets, but much too far for her to cross to attack him.

"I knew you'd be by Faber's place," Ledge gritted out. "Now, if you don't have the Darkstone on your person, I know a woman who is going to be punctured and perforated an inch from death and then have to wear a brass bikini and get shackled to Fisk's throne as his little dancer chick. He is _not_ amused." Ledge reflected. "But he _is_ fat, and a crime lord. Never occurred to me before this moment that he's like Jabba the Hutt." He returned his attention to where she stood, scowling at him. "Not forthcoming?" he said cheerfully.

He squeezed the trigger, pounding a bullet through Mystique's leg, shattering the bone. She screamed as the leg was kicked out from under her by the bullet's force, and she slapped down on the ground, slowly squirming with pain she couldn't voice.

"I got lots and lots of bullets here," Ledge said, peering at her through the smoke of his gun. "And I'm supposed to bring you in alive, not in one piece. So how about you show me that Darkstone."

With trembling fingers, she reached into her coat and produced an octagonal puzzle box.

"So far so good," Ledge said. "Open it."

She managed to solve the puzzle, though it took a minute. She popped it open. He glanced in the box and nodded, satisfied.

"Close the box," Ledge prompted. She did. "Now hand it to me."

Her hand shook as she offered it to him. Ledge reached for the box.

A peculiar zipping sound interrupted the moment, and a webline slapped onto the box and jerked it out of her hand. Ledge spun shooting, and his bullets severed the webline. The box had momentum, though, and it clacked down on the ground and skidded, then hit the edge of the shoulder of the road, popped up in the air, and tumbled into the bay with a loud plop.

Ledge screamed and fired at Peter, who was perched on the guard rail of the road. Peter dropped sideways out of sight as bullets pounded through the metal of the guard rail. Ledge spun one of his pistols by its trigger guard in a practiced motion, holstering it and pulling out a grenade. With his thumb he popped the pin, and he tossed it over the rail. It exploded, sending shrapnel singing up and out; if Peter was lurking on the side of the hill, he was deeply punctured now. Ledge returned his attention to Mystique.

He snatched her by her hair, stepped around behind her, holstering his gun. He pulled out a small double bladed knife, and he slit her throat. He dumped her on the ground and stood, catching his breath. Then he stepped over the guard rail and slid down the steaming hillside to look for the box.

Sirens were converging on this location now, and Peter stole out of the shadow of the buildings across the street. He had quickly circled around; Ledge would find no body. He picked Mystique's limp form up and carried her into the shadows, two streets over, behind the strip mall. He settled her on the ground with her back to a truck loading bay.

"You don't have to pretend for me," he said simply. "I know you're not dead."

She glared at him as her throat struggled, reforming itself.

"Maybe not," she choked, "but it hurts like hell."

"Don't do that," Peter said, looking away. Blood bubbles formed on her throat when she tried to talk; it wasn't fully sealed yet. A few minutes passed.

"I'm going to kill him for that," Mystique rasped.

"Hey, do it on your own time," Peter said. "What was your name when you worked for the Nazis?"

She almost chuckled. "Raven Darkholme," she said. "I had to ditch the name when I severed ties with the Nazis, a pity really. I like that name."

"Maybe it's been long enough you could pick it up again," Peter shrugged. "Mystique is a really stupid name. How did you end up with it?"

"I was a triple cross quadruple agent, nobody knew _who_ I was working for. Even I got confused at times. About sixty people ended up dead, but I pulled the job off, as insanely difficult as it was, even for me. I can't tell you what it was about. But… after that my callsign, Mystique, was well known. I decided to keep it."

"Well, it's your name," Peter shrugged, "but I sure wouldn't want people to call me 'Wallcrawler' even if it's something I can do."

"I am weary of this idle prattle," Mystique said. "My people are going to miss me if I'm gone much longer. I'm doing this on my vacation, after all. Don't fret about me, I can get out of town on my own."

"Was the Darkstone really in that box?" Peter asked.

She looked at him for a long moment. "It pleases me that you can't know," she said at last.

"You," Peter said, narrowing his eyes, "are a snotty, nasty woman."

She looked amused. "Of course it was in the box. You won this one, Peter Parker," she said. "How about we agree to stay out of each other's way."

"Why didn't I think of that," Peter said sourly.

"It would be a shame if we had to kill each other," she said, flashing a smile. Then she tugged a cell phone out of her pocket and autodialed. "Extraction, I'm ready to go." She conveyed their location to the mystery on the other end of the line, then hung up and looked at Peter.

"You'll want to be gone in about twenty minutes," she said softly.

"Your arm and neck and all," he said, feeling a bit awkward. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"I'll be fine," she said with a shrug. "In about a month. You can go with a clear conscience. And I suggest you go now rather than later."

Peter nodded.

Then he was gone.

**xXx**

Peter opened the door to the closet in his room and pulled out the child mannequin. "Heya Chuck," he said. "Daddy needs new threads." He took the mannequin and trotted down to the basement. He had previously screwed a ring onto the back of the mannequin, and he hung it from the ceiling. Then, he stripped off his shirt. His spinnerets carefully modulated the web spray, pushing it down to a fine mist. He puffed webbing all over the mannequin; soles of the feet, top of the head, hands, torso, everything. He made the layer quite thick, almost a half inch.

He finished, and the mannequin was coated so not a fraction of an inch was exposed. Peter nodded to himself, satisfied. He rubbed at his forearms. They burned and itched; he was not fully recovered. He noticed traces of blood in the webbing on the dummy. How appropriate.

He took two cardboard cutouts of oval eye shapes and stuck them on the drying mesh, in place. They would make pale eye spots when he spray-painted the entire mesh later. First the mesh had to dry, then the paint. The mesh was thick on a child dummy, but stretched on his adult form it was truly form-fitting.

"And comfortable," he added aloud. He closed his eyes, his senses unreeling and touching everything in the basement, all things familiar. He felt unshed tears of gratitude well up behind his eyes.

"Now I just have some writing to do," Peter said, "leave some letters for the near and dear. Just in case. And then? Then the sun goes down." He paused.

"Are we ready to do this thing?" he said quietly.

_We are ready._

"I missed you," he whispered to himself.


	41. Last Words

Ledge relaxed in the Starbucks. He punched a number into his cell phone and leaned back, his coffee cooling on the table in front of him.

"Put me through to the fat man," Ledge said. "Of course it's Ledge." He sighed, and waited, trying to ignore the sharp thudding of pain behind his eyes.

"Yes?" Fisk said over the phone. Ledge absently reflected that the phone didn't do him justice at all.

"They got away, and almost blinded me in the process. She got the Darkstone from the attic before we showed up, and that jackass Parker tossed it in the bay. Parker has his powers back, too. They found Faber." He paused. "Isn't it about time?"

There was a long silence. "Use your discretion from here on out," Fisk said.

"Hot damn," Ledge said. "And I want a bonus."

"A bonus?" Fisk said, sounding amused. "But you failed, Ledge."

"Hey, I'm an assassin, not a babysitter. Don't send a killer to do a kid gloves job. I'll kill Peter, but it's a lot harder for me to work my magic if I have to worry about a little thing like him perishing under my tender ministrations. I'm worth the money, Fisk."

"Alright," Fisk said. "Standard amount, standard methods. It is time for him to die. Return to my office at once. You will need better gear."

"Thank you, sir," Ledge said. "I'm on the job." He let Fisk hang up first, then he snapped the phone shut. The man at the table next to him was looking at him oddly.

"What?" Ledge said. "You got something to say?"

The man stared down into his coffee, and Ledge grinned to himself.

Time to see what a freak can do against a work of art.

**xXx**

Fisk regarded the phone on its cradle. Ledge would fail, of that he was certain. Things had reached this point, and there's really only one way they could end. He stood and walked over to look out at the sinking afternoon sun.

"Come to me," he rumbled. "Let us settle this the only way we can."

**xXx**

Mary Jane managed to get through the front door with both arms full of groceries. She shifted to settle them on the table, and she took her keys out of her mouth. "Amy, I'm back, I got frozen pizza and chocolate ice cream. Bow before me and call me a goddess and I might share."

"Yer a goddess, I'm bowing and scraping," Amy mumbled. She turned the page in her romance novel.

"Close enough," Mary Jane shrugged. She made short work of putting the groceries, such as they were, away. Then she headed back to her room.

She closed the door and sat on the bed. She took out one earring. The other. Then she yelped, a sound between a gasp and a scream.

"Ssh!" Peter said quickly from where he was perched in the corner between the ceiling and the two walls. Mary Jane clutched her chest and blinked. Thudding footsteps in the hall; Amy opened the door.

"What!?" she said.

"I… I saw a spider," Mary Jane said quickly. "Biggest one you have ever seen. I think it went under the dresser."

"Raid's in the pantry," Amy said with a shrug. "Sweet dreams tonight. Hope you get a spider in your bed. Just try not to scream too loud, don't wake me up."

"Har har har," Mary Jane said. "Git, before I hit _you_ with my Economics textbook."

Amy rolled her eyes at Mary Jane then retreated to the living room. Peter slowly pushed the door shut with his toe, still perched in the upper corner.

"I need to talk to you," Peter said, "and I need your help."

"Name it," she said. "Sorry about the noise," she gestured, "I'm not used to seeing men tucked into odd nooks and crannies of my room. Do you want to come down here?" she asked.

He shook his head wordlessly. "They're watching your place." He paused. Gathered his strength. "Fisk tried for me again, Mary Jane. And now I'm about to go to him. This whole time I've been like a fish, he's been the fisherman. Once he hooked me, he's been trying to reel me in. I've been fighting it, bucking, leaping, diving, doing whatever I can to stay away." He looked into her eyes. "I'm about to charge the boat and pull the fisherman into the water with me. I can't fight this incessant, painful pressure any more. The risk has just gotten to be too much. I have to end this."

He reached into his bag and pulled out a sheaf of letters. One by one he flicked them to the bed next to her. "Gwen, her dad, Aunt May, Harry, Doug, Strange, Kravinoff and I do know it'll be tough to deliver, but try; Logan, here's one for Stark. And this one," he said, holding up the last one, "is for you." He paused. "If something happens to me, please distribute these. As for yours," he said, "you can open it as soon as I leave. Whether I make it back or not."

"Oh Peter," Mary Jane said, looking at the pile of letters. She touched her hand to her mouth.

Peter was silent for a long moment, his elbows on his knees, his feet flat to the wall, his fingers steepled, his shoulders tucked against the ceiling. "Harry said nothing touches me," he said. "Aunt May said the same sort of thing about my father. I'm pretty sure my grandfather was that way too. My clan," he said, looking Mary Jane in the eye, "we live fast and die young. Tonight is as good a night as any to uphold the tradition. It's a Friday night, Friday the thirteenth, and nobody in this whole town has a party to go to like I do."

His whole body was quivering as his pent up energy began to unwind. He felt the burst of raw life return to him, the spider senses and strengths that had returned to him thrummed through his frame. He was alive. He was life itself. Terror, excitement, rage, vengeance, hope, and desire coursed through him. The mesh made, the letters written, the sun gone down, the last goodbyes. Nothing left in the way of what he meant to do.

"I have lightning for blood," he whispered, his eyes grown very deep as he gazed at Mary Jane.

"Didn't take you very long to get your powers back," she said a little breathlessly. His senses took in every nuance of her rapid breathing.

"No," he agreed. "No it didn't." He felt his life returned at full force. He felt his restraints fall away; tonight there would be no running, no hiding, no clever evasions. Tonight he carried the battle to Fisk. He felt his death close and real, like the shadow behind him in the corner.

His wounds ached, but the pain was simply a part of him, fueling his deep rage that hovered barely in check. It was time, time to go. He felt overwhelmed by the drives that consumed him as he clung to the wall, away from Mary Jane, much much too far away from her.

He dropped, standing face to face with her. His breathing was fast, his whole body was tense with energy. "Don't let me," he breathed. She was so soft, so excited. He felt the air between them almost shimmer with the intensity.

"I can't stop you," she whispered, her eyes lost in his.

He gave her a deep, passionate kiss. Then he closed his eyes and focused, and took a single step back, at tremendous cost. He opened his eyes, and she saw Peter Parker again.

"I am better than my impulses," he said, more to himself than to her. He looked into her eyes. "Don't give up, whatever happens. Don't forget that you have something to live for." There was a fierce struggle behind his eyes, then he gave her a skewed grin and slipped out the door.

Mary Jane fell over backwards onto the bed, overwhelmed. "Wow," she managed.

Amy did not see Peter Parker leave.

**xXx**

"Excuse me, sir," Fisk's assistant said, "but your employees are getting antsy."

"Send them away, all of them," Fisk rumbled softly. "Tell them after tonight the spider ghost will no longer be a concern. Tell them that and send them away."

"What about security, sir?" his assistant wavered.

"Tell them to stand down," Fisk growled, making the furniture vibrate. "Their assistance will not be needed." He looked down at his vast, solid hands, and he smiled a little to himself. His assistant scurried off.

"I should be out looking for him," Ledge said with a shake of his head. "He's wounded. Stupid, predictable, and wounded. He'll heal up for a few days before he tries anything else. I figure I'll go burn his house down. That should draw him out. If it doesn't, hey," Ledge shrugged. "I'll feel better anyway. I'm headed down to get some gear from the armory."

"It doesn't matter, not really," Fisk mused. "If you want to collect your fee, you had best be here. He's coming. He's on his way, right now," Fisk said, his deep voice filling the air. He stood, immobile, staring out the window.

"Yeah?" Ledge said. "How do you know?"

Fisk almost smiled. "Do you really believe I got to the top by relying on reports, or projections? No. Instinct, Ledge. Instinct brings knowledge without the need to explain where it's from."

"Yeah," Ledge said, reflecting. "Yeah, okay, I know about that. I'll collect my fee here."

It was quiet for a long moment.

"You want some coffee?" Ledge asked.


	42. Showdown

He was roaring with energy, his returned power surging, his wounds webbed shut. "I am enough to face you," he said through clenched teeth as he whirled up the side of Fisk's fortress. Needles of sleet lashed the city but he barely noticed. "It's time for a reckoning."

Peter cleared the top of Fisk's building and slithered down the inner courtyard, ignoring the ice. He found the door, the door that he knew led directly into the complex, to Fisk's office; this was the door they had thrown Beck from.

Peter ripped it off its hinges and sent it spinning through the air, down the long drop into darkness. He dropped into the room, surrounded by swirling sleet, his suit tight and black, his eyespots almost glowing.

A security guard stood in the corridor, waiting for him, hands out to the side. "Mister Fisk will see you now," he said, a little rattled but keeping his cool.

Peter followed him, but the moment he set foot in the cross hallway his senses screamed, and he bounded back reflexively. What!?

The explosions of a fully automatic heavy weapon tore the quietness of the place, and the guard was spattered, blown to pieces by a gun emplacement at the end of the hall. For just a moment, Peter stared at the remains of the dead guard. He heard a laugh from the end of the hall that could only come from Ledge.

Fifty caliber jacketed slugs, his senses helpfully informed him. Then, with a tink, a grenade banked perfectly off the doorframe and landed at his feet.

_We should jump._

Peter bounded off the floor, moving high, touching the cross hallway wall with his foot and lining himself up—

The concussion grenade went off, and Peter rode the force, sailing down the hallway; he fired a glob of web that moved faster than he did, slopping across the gunbarrel of the M-60 mounted at the end of the hall. Ledge lay behind sandbacks, an M-60 propped up on a stand. He was in classic shooter's position, prone.

Peter whipped over Ledge's head and landed lightly behind him, unhurt.

Ledge did a kippup off the ground and slid two guns from their holsters, but fast as he was, he could not match Peter's speed. The guns were slapped out of his hands. Peter yanked the ammo belt out of the M-60 and lashed out at Ledge with it; Ledge parried with his forearm but the heavy ammunition folded over his forearm and delivered a heavy slap on his head and neck. Peter jerked the belt, and the tips of the bullets and their connectors left cuts as the belt slid back into Peter's control. Ledge yanked out a knife while Peter's hands were full. He was fast, damned fast, and his blade licked out and cut Peter's ribs even as Peter hopped out of the way.

For a long second Ledge stared at Peter and Peter stared at Ledge.

"You _cut_ me," Peter said. He dropped the ammo belt with a clatter. Ledge whipped out another knife and twirled the first, grinning, his face freely bleeding.

"Mommy mommy there's a big scary bug," Ledge said through his grin.

"Oh, a _clever _one," Peter sighed.

Peter bounced up, his feet poking out, and kicked the knives out of Ledge's hands. As he landed, he drove a two palmed strike into Ledge's torso.

Ledge went airborne; he landed almost lightly considering he was still being propelled backward by incredible force. He slid through the remains of the dead security guard, a solid fifty feet down the hallway. He stopped himself by dragging his boot along the wall, then he did a kippup and stood ready.

No skill would help him breathe right now, though. His air was gone.

"Time to finish this," Peter muttered. "It's time for a demonstration," he said to Ledge as his senses kicked into overdrive, identifying and placing every mote of dust in the air. "I'm not just going to beat you. I'm going to _school_ you. So next time you'll know better. If I just kill ya," he added, "ya won't learn nuthin."

Ledge wanted to say something witty in return, but he couldn't breathe. So he moved instead.

He whipped out shurkien and whirled them, four at once.

Peter snagged two out of the air, letting the rest sail harmlessly past. He stuck the throwing stars in his mesh. Peter breathed out. He stood forty feet away from Ledge.

Ledge blinked. He pulled out two throwing knives, settled into a stance, moving his arms, then threw them at an unpredictable moment.

Peter snagged them out of the air, still walking towards Ledge. Peter stuck the knives in his mesh. Ledge was thirty feet away.

Ledge tossed out a handful of caltrops. He managed his first sucking breath. Then he sent two weights whirling at Peter.

Peter stopped each with an adhesive fingertip, and he coiled them into his hands, weighting his fists. Twenty feet.

Ledge managed a hoarse yell and he sent a barrage of pointed and blunt projectiles whirling down the hall, throwing everything he had in his belt. Peter dodged some, caught the rest, and then lightly bounded into the midst of the caltrops without stepping on any.

For a second Ledge's wide eyes locked with Peter's eyespots.

"What the hell are you?" Ledge breathed.

Peter nodded.

Then in a blur of motion he returned Ledge's projectiles. The weights bounced off his kneecaps, shurkien slamming into his shoulder joints, knives into his hips. The rest of the projectiles thudded into his elbows, wrists, ankles. Ledge couldn't scream as the projectiles drove him back against the wall at the end of the hallway. He passed out from shock and slumped to the ground, senseless, punctured, broken.

But alive.

Peter turned his back on him.

"Fisk!" he shouted.

The doors at the other end of the hall creaked open. Peter approached, wary.

A board room.

Peter's senses were taut. Something huge. Something huge lurks in that room. Peter approached, taking a deep breath.

At the far end, something stood looking through the wall of windows at the sparkling city below. It could have been a man, but it was over seven and a half feet tall, easily that wide or wider, almost that thick. The man was almost cubic, but he wore an expensive suit and he smoked a cigarette in a holder; no mere cigarette could be handled by his vast hands. His fist was the size of Peter's torso.

"Where is Fisk," Peter demanded.

"You must be the inestimable, redoubtable Peter Parker," Fisk murmured, his voice like a live thing stalking through the room. "I would say I have you at a disadvantage, but that would be an understatement as well as blatantly obvious."

Peter recognized the authority this man radiated. "You are Fisk, aren't you."

"You don't disappoint, Peter Parker," Fisk said, still not turning. "You have demonstrated considerable prowess, as well as cunning and determination. And a talent for savagery, but that's neither here nor there. No matter what façade we erect," he continued, almost to himself, "there is something bestial in each of us."

"I'm not interested in your job offer. Perhaps none of your flunkies, freaks, and goons managed to get that message through," Peter said.

"Name calling?" Fisk mused. "From a man in tights?" Fisk dropped his cigarette and casually stepped on it. "The clock is almost unwound. It is time."

Liquid fear ran through Peter in the face of Fisk's composure. He let out a burst of breath. Okay.

_Let's go._

"You aren't afraid of me at all, are you," Peter said. "I down Lincoln, Voorhees, Beck, Mystique, and Ledge, and you're still not one bit nervous."

"No terms I offer will interest you in employment," Fisk noted.

"And nothing I say or do will make you leave me in peace," Peter added.

Fisk turned to face him. "I would have liked to have done this differently, upon reflection. I had no idea how talented you were. How gifted."

"I never would have worked for you anyway," Peter said. "You are a bad man." His senses played over Fisk's huge bulk, looking for weak spots. It was not a comforting exercise. They didn't find many. His pressure points and nerve centers were buried under slabs of muscle, sheer tonnage of flesh. "I was going to let it go after Beck failed. I gave you one last chance."

Fisk tilted his head slightly, and his neck cracked. The deep popping snaps reverberated in the room. Peter imagined that's what he would sound like if Fisk got a grip.

_Well then, we just won't let him get a grip._

"Men in my position get there and stay there because they do not fail, they do not lose," Fisk said. He shucked his jacket. "Had you seen fit to honor my most generous offer, then everyone you love would not have to die. You see, I must now choose between your well being and mine."

"You have the standard bad guy flaw," Peter said as anger rose in him. He could picture a thug kicking down the door, shooting Aunt May. And he didn't even want to _think _about what would happen to Mary Jane. "You talk too much." Peter settled into his stance, ready to fight.

Fisk smiled at him, feeling the thin, fine, heady heat of rage that he normally kept clenched deep in his chest rise. He felt his muscles ready for the battle. His fingers itched for the feel of mesh, and under it fragile bone joints crushing to powder in the sack of meat Parker would become.

"You're mad all the time, aren't you," Peter said, watching the horrific expression creep across Fisk's face. "I'm just the hammer that dropped on that big ole bullet of mad you got in you every day. Huh," he reflected, his mouth running to draw his attention from his nerves. "A man that fat should be jolly."

"Can you do more than prance and babble?" Fisk asked, raising his voice to what would be speaking level for him. The air itself shook. "Come show me. Show me how, exactly, you beat Lincoln."

"What, Count Chalkula? Well, it was a big beam of sunlight, hit him right in the chest," Peter prattled, feeling himself steeling for the coming pain. "Just a big ole Mack truck sunbeam."

Peter popped off a blob of webbing at Fisk's face, but the big man was ready for it; he caught it on the back of his hand and took a step forward, spinning, like a huge graceful dancer. His backhand tore through the air with incredible force, and Peter slid back effortlessly out of the way.

Peter put all his strength into a blow, leaning forward and lashing down at Fisk's knee. His fist buried itself to the heel of his hand, and he felt the force dig in. The knee made a dull cracking sound. Peter lightly hopped back.

Fisk snatched up two of the office chairs around the table. He swung one of them, and Peter sprang up on the table, not seeing the other chair flying at him until it was too late.

One of the wheels of the chair caught him on the forearm, he darted his head to the side to avoid another one smacking into his face. The force of the thrown chair carried him off the table, across the room in an arcless flight, smashing into the wall and dropping. Peter lightly regained his feet and scampered around the table. Fisk re-oriented to face him again.

"Like a big stump," Peter mused, "and I'm like a squirrel that hates big stumps." He bounded into the air, ran along the window perpendicular to the floor, and slid through the air to land on Fisk's shoulders. He pounded a blow home on Fisk's skull, and as Fisk reached for him he scrabbled around Fisk's shoulderblade and slammed a hit down over where his spine was buried in flesh. Slithering around Fisk's ribs, he headbutted him in the teeth. Fisk drew his arms together, trying to trap Peter in a bear hug, and Peter leapfrogged over him by adhering to his face and swinging himself up. He landed on Fisk's back, not noticing how Fisk had turned until the huge man simply leaned back, trapping Peter between his bulk and the window.

Fisk dug in his feet and pushed back, enlisting his vast weight and muscle to pin Peter.

"Urg," said Peter wittily.

Fisk smiled.

Peter adhered to the glass and simply pulled himself up so Fisk was leaning on the glass with no one in the way. From above, he slammed a kick down into Fisk's face, knocking his head back into the glass. Then another. And another. Peter kicked as hard as he could. Fisk's head rocked back hard, smacking into the glass.

On the third kick the glass cracked a little.

Fisk roared, moving faster than Peter realized he could. He snatched Peter's leg and swung him, ripping the skin of his fingertips that he had been adhered to the glass with as he yanked him clear. Peter slung out full length and smacked into the glass, his whole body a contact point. Fisk was already swinging him around to the other side. Peter shot out a webline at the blurring spin of the room, catching the far wall just as he was smashed into the window on the other side. The webline caught, and Peter tried to pull himself clear.

Fisk squeezed.

Peter let out a scream as he felt his ankle bones shift together, then crack. Fisk reached out and almost gently wrapped his hand around Peter's torso, getting most of it in his grip. His hand was hot, hard, a huge muscle. Peter knew that even his tough bones and flesh could not survive a grip like this.

He fired web up into Fisk's face as he tugged on his poorly planted webline across the room as hard as he could. In just the perfect moment when Fisk shifted his grip, Peter slithered free and slid across the table as Fisk clawed the webbing off his face.

Fisk stood staring at Peter, who stared back at him.

"What do I have to do," Peter said. "What do I have to do to be free of you? Kill you?"

"I'll relieve you of your worries," Fisk said. He brushed his hands together, and Peter realized he was missing the leg of his mesh from the knee down. His mesh was in poor shape, after dealing with Ledge and after this tussle. He glanced back up to see Fisk was moving.

Peter flipped back and landed upright. Fisk plowed into the boardroom table and flung it, tearing it off the floor where it was bolted. It was a single easy sweep of power for him. Peter stepped forward and put the force of his blow into the center of the table as it rushed towards him. He broke it in two and shoved it out of the way like two vast double doors.

"I am enough to beat you," Peter said quietly. "Let's finish this.

Fisk lumbered forward, favoring his injured knee. He snatched at Peter, who spun away, favoring his crippled leg. He made another grab.

This time Peter put the flat of both hands against the back of Fisk's fist as he slipped out of the way. He spun, and levered all his strength.

In a surreal moment, the wiry little man lifted the entire bulk of Wilson Fisk and hurled him down the center of the wrecked room. Fisk slammed into the wall thirty feet away, upside down. He slid to the ground and then rolled to his feet, vibrating in raw fury.

"It hurt so good," Peter said, adrenaline rushing through him from the excitement. "I just tossed the fat man." He grinned. "You have GOT to be getting this on tape," he said, glancing around. He saw the security camera. He walked over to it.

"See," he said to the camera, "I'm just the guest star. The staple of your programming is a fat, uncouth, ugly slug of a lardbag puswallow who thinks it's okay to put little old ladies in the hospital, condone the rape of college women, wreck people's cars on purpose, get innocent young men evicted, and so on. He even took away my spider senses so I, if you can believe it, failed a calculus test. Me! Not just a B. No. An F. I flunked a calculus test because he stole half my brain. He is a _bad man. _Fortunately I got better. His list of crimes is long but distinguished I'm sure. Right now, he's getting his butt handed to him by his latest pet project." Peter glanced at where Fisk stood, cold and silent, waiting. "Intermission over. I gotta get back to this thing." He smiled and waved at the camera, then returned his attention to Fisk.

Fisk stood, the vast bellows of his chest rising and falling, his face a dark mask of insane rage. His suit hung from him in tatters. The room was dented and bent in several dimensions; nothing seemed quite square. Fisk said nothing, he simply stood breathing and staring in hatred at Peter.

"Ready for some more whuppin?" Peter asked. "I brought my extra family sized can all for you. Let's go."

Fisk waited. He raised a slab of a hand, and beckoned.

Peter shrugged. "You asked for it," he said, and he sidled in with a crablike hop, not putting weight on his crushed ankle. Peter rolled across the cracked floor and popped up with a solid fist blow to Fisk's injured kneecap, hitting him with enough force to total a car. The kneecap cracked. Peter rolled to the side and drove a kick into Fisk's hamstring; the blow went deep but didn't find what it was after. Peter did a half a kippup, keeping one leg clear. He bounded up and drove a blow into Fisk's ear. His retreating fist was followed by blood. _That_ was a sensitive spot.

Fisk stood and took it.

Peter moved up to the wall behind Fisk, and from there he drove a blow down on the top of Fisk's head. Then he put a hand on Fisk's shoulder, calculating the angle to swing down and bury his heel in Fisk's sternum.

Fisk's hand whipped up and clamped down around Peter's skull.

Peter felt Fisk breathe out with dark joy, and he knew he had a quarter of a second to act.

Everything snapped into slow motion as his senses, encumbered by Fisk's hand, guided a nearly impossible shot.

Peter's fist whipped out, middle knuckle extended, and punched directly into Fisk's right eye. Desperation drove the blow. Peter felt the eyeball warp, then pop.

With all his strength, Peter drove his fists into Fisk's wrist just below the heel of his hand. One found tendon, the other found bone. Fisk's grip relaxed just a moment, enough for Peter to flip clear and land with nothing worse than a throbbing headache from the exchange.

Fisk stood cupping his hand over his eye, a thick runnel of blood pouring down past his wrist. His eye was destroyed, Peter sensed that instinctively.

"Okay, Fisk," he said. "This seems as good a time as any to talk this through. Allow me to propose a business arrangement. You leave me and mine alone. I let you keep your eyesight. You mess with me one more time, one more of my friends or family gets mysteriously ill or injured, I come back here for your other eye." He thought for a minute. "And your tongue."

Fisk stared at him.

"Or I kill you," Peter said, his voice hard and cold. He did not add anything to the statement. Nothing needed to be added.

Fisk recognized that coldness. It was a coldness of a man with something to lose, a man who would do anything to keep what he had. He slowly smiled as he realized he forged the blade that was now at this throat, that he was the one that granted Parker the resolve to do this.

"I could have you killed," Fisk managed, his voice hoarse.

Peter cocked his head. "Ever hit a spider in your bedroom, but not hard enough? Seen it crawl away into the woodwork? In the room where you sleep?" He shook his head. "If you get me, then it's not my problem anymore. But if you strike and miss? Let's not be cute. Let's not imply anything. I'll be very specific. I won't come back here twice. If I have to come back here, I'll kill you, Wilson Fisk. If you can't drop this, then I'll work my way through your army of flunkies and gunbunnies and your freaks and madmen. Then I'll sit down to a Buffet du Fisk and when I've had my fill I'll load up my freezer at home with steaks from what's left. You understand me?"

"You talk. A lot," Fisk said.

Peter narrowed his eyes, his anger building again. "Consider this a warning. Before tonight we operated through proxies. Here I am in the flesh. I reject your offer of employment. I advise you that removing the death mark on me is in your optician's best interests. I've beaten you. Let's do this gracefully."

With a ragged roar Fisk scooped up two chairs and hurled them at Peter. Peter bounded out of the way, and the chairs smashed into the wall behind him and stuck. Peter whirled out of the way as Fisk charged, and some detached part of his mind was working fast and furious.

He understood Fisk.

Fisk had too much at stake; everything. His position, his health, his very life depended on winning this fight. Peter saw that now. He tumbled out of the way as Fisk swung half the board table, sweeping the room in a vast display of raw power. Fisk could no more concede than Peter could.

Something in Peter still shied away from killing.

There has to be a way out, Peter thought. Then the idea dawned on him.

Fisk would fight to the death because he had no way out.

What could Peter do to give him one?

As his brain whirred away, Peter rolled in close. The grip was the dangerous thing on this behemoth. Peter snatched his pinkie finger and brought his knee crashing up into the joint in the middle. The finger snapped at an unnatural angle. Peter scrambled across Fisk's back as the big man whirled. Peter snatched the index finger on his other hand and hauled back with all his strength. It cracked at the first joint where it met the hand. Peter dove between Fisk's hands as the huge man grabbed at him, some of his fingers flopping uselessly. Peter pounded a blow, his toughest, at the back of Fisk's hand. A metacarpal bone crunched.

Fisk grunted. Peter tossed a heavy blow under Fisk's chin in his moment of distraction. Peter backflipped away. Now that he was past his intimidation he was fighting smarter instead of harder. And it was working. A piece at a time he was reducing the mountain of his foe.

Peter realized that in a way he had been fighting his own fear.

In that moment, he won. He looked at Fisk, who stood blearily staring at him. Blood oozed out of Fisk's face. He looked somehow tired. Peter understood that they both knew that Fisk was beaten.

"Okay, Fisk," he said. He reached up and tore off his mask. "I'm sorry I wasn't good enough."

Fisk stared at him.

"I couldn't pass your tests," he said sorrowfully, shaking his head. He looked Fisk in the eye. "Please, please give me another chance to work for you? I know I blew it this time, that I couldn't make the cut. But next time I'll do better. You gotta give me another chance!"

Understanding dawned in Fisk's remaining eye. He was not, after all, a stupid man.

His face shifted to a grimace, and for just a moment Peter thought he saw a glimmer of something like gratitude in the big man's eye.

"You lack… the talent… to work for me," Fisk forced out, his voice weak. "You're too lippy to be a footsoldier and too damned stupid to do robberies."

"Pretty please?" Peter said. "I had to fight you to MAKE you give me a second chance!"

"Get out of my sight," Fisk breathed. "I never want to have to look at you again. You have failed, spider ghost. I have better thugs knocking over liquor stores. No violence," he said with a gleam in his eye, "can replace cunning, thinking on your feet, improvisation. You're a one trick pony."

Peter nodded curtly. "Well I'll just be going then." And with that, he limped out of the room, down the hall, through the crossway, to the missing door that led out into the night.

Peter Parker was free.

For a long, long moment, Fisk stood alone in his boardroom not even seeing the mess. He was fully grasping what had just happened. He almost chuckled.

From the hallway, Ledge groaned.

"Time for some new talent," Fisk rumbled. His mind ran over some of the dossiers he had received in recent months. There was that fellow who had those gauntlets, that manipulated sonic energies. And the other man, something about electricity. Fisk limped to the intercom.

"Please send a medical team to my office," he grunted. Then he leaned against the wall.

"A hiccup, nothing more," he murmured to himself. He half smiled. "I think that's the last we'll see of Peter Parker." Who saved his life and his honor both. And, with a little judicious editing, he had proof of his defeat of the spider ghost on camera.

Fisk decided to let Peter Parker live.


	43. Merry Christmas

Peter reveled in the feel of the free fall. He zoomed down from a tremendous height towards certain death, then at the last moment he fired out a webline that carried him up, clear. He swung free of the entire mess of madness.

One way or another, he felt that his dealings with Fisk were over.

**xXx**

Mary Jane sat, stone faced, pointed at the window, listening to the clock tick. A shadow at her window. Her eyes widened, but she assumed it was one of the dozens of figments of her imagination that had visited the window in the last hour.

Then Peter Parker levered it open and dropped inside.

She was on her feet then at his side. "Peter, are you okay?" she said.

"Yes," he said. "And busted all to pieces. But I won, and nobody died. Bathtub. Put me in the bathtub."

She supported him as they worked their way to the bathroom. He dropped into the tub, his tattered mesh still hanging on him. Using his toes, he dexterously turned on and adjusted the water. As it poured in, it turned pink with his blood.

"I did it," Peter said, more than a little wonder in his voice. "It's over. If I'm not dead next week," he said, looking into Mary Jane's eyes, "I'm a free man. With everything that entails."

She half smiled. "Hey Pete," she said. "Wanna go to a movie or something? Maybe some dinner?"

He leaned back, utterly exhausted. "Sounds good," he said. "How about Monday?"

"Monday?" she said, raising her eyebrows.

"I gotta rest, gotta heal up tomorrow," Peter said. "Then I should be mobile." He looked down at his foot, cranked at an odd angle and swelling. "Sunday is Harry's dad's funeral," he added quietly.

They sat together quietly as the water ran.

**Sunday, December 15**

Peter limped out of the church, passing on the reception line of the funeral. He wore a dark suit with a long dark coat. He walked twenty paces from the church door and leaned against a tree, turning to look at the cathedralesque chapel where the funeral had been held.

Less than five minutes later, Mary Jane came through the door. Her black dress made her brilliant red hair even more eye-catching. She looked around for a minute, then walked over to where Peter waited.

"You're a decent man, Peter Parker," she said.

He shrugged. "Thanks."

"I've been mourning Harry since the car accident," she said. "I've been waiting for him to snap out of his funk, but bracing myself against the possibility that our relationship might be over. It's not like we were courting, neither of us planned to get married. Dating has a limited claim on a woman."

"Is that so?" Peter said with a crooked smile.

She examined the cuts on his face, his black eye. "You look like hell," she said.

"Thanks," he said with a full smile this time.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Peter," she said. "How about I pick you up in my fully functional and timely car."

"You do that," he said, restraining a chuckle.

She turned and walked away, and he watched her go. Still, his senses played across the church door.

There was one more person he had to talk to.

Peter was willing to wait the half hour it took Harry to wrap up enough business to escape the funeral and come outside. Harry must have known that. He was looking for Peter the moment he stepped out the door.

Harry walked up to him. "Mind if I smoke?" Harry asked quietly. He had dark circles under his eyes, he looked tired.

"Go ahead," Peter said.

"Walk with me," Harry said, heading down the lawn between the trees. Peter obliged.

"You a hit man?" Harry asked quietly. "Bruises, secrecy, too much charm, all those odd hours."

"I'm afraid not," Peter said. "Just a bit socially inept and a bit clumsy."

"Have it your way," Harry shrugged. "If you ever want to let me in on what's going on, I'll be there for you," he added. "When I get back. I'm going to be… out of touch for a while," Harry said.

"Is this about Mary Jane?" Peter asked, concern in his voice.

"Bah," Harry said. "Half the fun of dating MJ, truth be known and we're both being honest, is that I knew you were crazy about her and that she liked you too. She was a trophy, and we both used to like to party. We had good times, but things are different now. She's all yours, if you think you can handle it."

Peter nodded, at a loss for words. Then he picked something out of what Harry said. "_Used_ to?"

"Maybe it's time to grow up," Harry said to Peter with a somber smile. "You did your growing up, Peter. You think I couldn't tell? Maybe it's time for me to take my place in the world too."

Peter shook his head, not sure what he felt. "You need anything, Harry, you come to me and if I can help you I will," Peter said earnestly. "I owe you."

Harry looked at him. "You really believe that," he mused. He gave Peter a quick hug. "I suspect your help might be worth more than anyone guesses." He grinned puckishly. "You and your fire extinguishers and your pole position."

"Easy, easy," Peter protested. "Okay already. So my covers suck. Leave me alone." He had to grin back.

"I won't be a stranger," Harry said. "I just need to rethink a few things." He nodded. "See you around, Parker," he said.

"I'll be in touch," Peter said. "I wish you the best."

Harry just smiled, walked over to the Jag he inherited, dropped in, and drove away. Peter watched him go.

"Have a happy ending, Harry," he said softly to himself. "Isn't that what we all want?"

**EPILOGUE**

**Tuesday, December 24. Christmas Eve**

Peter answered the door just seconds after the doorbell rang. "Come on in," he said with a grin.

Mary Jane stepped in, shaking snow out of her hair. "It's getting slick out," she said. "Mm. The whole house smells like turkey."

Peter closed the door and took her coat, hanging it in the closet. "You've stumbled into a Christmas extravaganza," Peter said.

"Hello, Mary," Aunt May said as she stepped out of the kitchen, brushing her hands on her apron.

"Willya look at that tan?" Peter said with a grin. "I swear she spent her whole Florida vacation beach combing."

"Hardly," Aunt May said. "I mostly expected calls from my nephew that didn't come. I hoped you'd be in better touch," Aunt May said, half stern.

"I figured I'd make up for it by being on time to pick you up at the airport," Peter grinned.

"You make up for it by just being Peter," Aunt May said with a fond smile. "I missed New York terribly while I was gone."

"I'm sure," Peter said. "Now you ladies sit down and I'll bring all the food into the dining room. Shoo. Go sit. I got it from here." He strolled into the kitchen, and Aunt May led Mary Jane into the dining room.

A few minutes later everything was in place. Peter sat on one side of the table, Aunt May at the head, and Mary Jane on the other side. Aunt May looked at the two of them for a long moment.

"You kids look good together," she beamed. She lowered her head and said Grace while Peter sneaked a glance at Mary Jane, who could hardly contain her smile.

**xXx**

Mary Jane dunked the plate in the rinse water and put it in the drainer, where Peter snagged it, dried it, and put it away in a precise pattern of movements. Mary Jane's eyes lingered for a moment on his long-sleeved shirt.

"This is really weird for me," Peter said, shaking his head. "I've only seriously dated one other girl, Gwen. She's still not totally gone, you know. I think she'll always be a part of me."

"She always will be," Mary Jane said. "That's the way it goes with relationships. Some mean more than others. The first big one is always important. You just go on anyway. Like those old cities, where they'd get sacked and the survivors would build a new city on the foundations left over from the old ones."

"I suppose that's a lead in for you to tell me how complex you are," Peter said with a grin.

"Goes without saying," she sniffed. She looked at him with an arched eyebrow, mischief in her eyes. "You have no idea."

"Time for the traditional album!" Aunt May called from the living room as they finished the turkey tray.

"No!" Peter said. "Not the Albums of Shame!" Peter yelled over his shoulder.

"But it's _tradition_," Aunt May said primly.

"Tradition? I've only had one other girlfriend!" Peter protested.

"That's why this is the time to start a tradition," Aunt May said, in a very final tone.

"No no no," Peter said. He put the last dish away and headed for the stairs. "This is so wrong."

"Show me," Mary Jane said, seating herself on the couch with a sly glance up the stairs. "I'm eager to see where our darling Peter comes from."

"Oh, I like this one," Aunt May said. "Here's little Peter with his very first chemistry set. He got it for Christmas eleven years ago. See his missing tooth?"

"He's _adorable_," Mary Jane cooed. A groan came from upstairs.

Peter came trotting back down the stairs, moving at a pretty good clip. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Let's get some pictures I'll _want_ to remember." He quickly set up the tripod and set the camera up on it, then adjusted the timer and scooted around in front of the camera, squeezing himself between Aunt May and Mary Jane.

"Christmas Eve with my favorite women," he said quietly. He smiled his biggest smile. The camera flashed.

"It's a keeper," Peter said. He was looking at Mary Jane, not the camera. She raised her eyebrows and blinked at him, then nodded towards the camera. He grinned and levered himself off the couch. "Right," he said, and he dismantled the setup.

"Before we finish out the albums, I think I'll put some coffee on," Aunt May said. She headed into the kitchen.

"So are you going to the Christmas dance with me at school?" Mary Jane asked.

"Er," Peter said, "I don't know about dances. The last one was a disaster."

"You don't really mean that," Mary Jane said, eyeing him as though he were dessert.

"You know, those dances. So many people, weird and crazy. And I only know eighties dance moves."

"You're a fine dancer," Mary Jane said. "And of course Gwen is on the planning committee. The place is guaranteed to be festooned with mistletoe," Mary Jane said, her voice low and quiet. "I know," she said, brightening. She reached into her purse and pulled out a Santa hat.

"You can't resist me in a Santa hat," she stated, pulling the hat on over her red hair. She batted her bright green eyes at him, looking for all the world like one of Santa's little helpers. "Come on, Peter, come with me to the dance."

"No, not the hat," Peter gasped, clutching at his chest. "Will to—resist—fading! Oh, God, I'll go, just take the hat off!"

She tugged it off, gave him a sweet kiss on the cheek, and got up off the couch. "I'm going to go see if Aunt May needs any help," she said. Then she stopped and looked him in the eye.

"You're my hero, Peter Parker," she said. Then she smiled, her eyes serious. She tossed the hat on his lap and headed into the kitchen.

"Hoo," Peter said to himself, and his face could barely contain his grin as he leaned back into the cushions and closed his eyes. "Merry Christmas to me."


End file.
